;-NRLF 


IN  MEMORY  OF 

WILLIAM  C.  HABBERLEY 


ftfcfcf 


c 

4. 


LATER  YEARS 


BY    THE    AUTHOR    OF 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  BY  THE  RIVER",  AND  "THE  OWL 
CREEK  LETTERS." 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 
FRANKLIN     SQUARE. 

1854. 


•' 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  yeur  1854,  by 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


GIFT 


t4& 

B 


i  i  i  i  r  E  t  n  1 ij* 

TTTHEN  this  volume  was  prepared  for  press,  it 
was  dedicated  to  two  friends,  by  the  round 
table  in  whose  pleasant  home  we  had  often  found  a 
welcome,  and  had  known  many  hours  of  serene 
pleasure.  Even  while  the  book  was  in  the  printer's 
hands,  and  before  this  page,  which  is  the  last  to  be 
printed,  was  reached,  the  sunshine  of  that  home  de 
parted,  and  a  shadow  fell  there  which  the  light  of 
long  life  will  never  prevail  to  overcome.  The  dedi 
cation  of  the  book  must,  therefore,  be  changed,  for 
the  same  page  can  not  well  be  addressed  to  one  on 
earth,  a  man  like  myself,  and  to  another  in  heaven, 
an  angel  of  the  angels.  My  living  friend  will  grasp 
my  outstretched  hand,  and  thank  me  for  the  silence 
that  does  not  attempt,  in  vain  words  of  human  ut 
terance,  to  speak  his  grief  and  my  affection. 

Humbly  and  lovingly  I  dedicate  the  book  to  the 


M617567 


iv  DEDICATORY. 

memory  of  his  dead  wife,  not  thinking  thus  to  place 
a  monument  of  any  enduring  nature  above  the  place 
of  her  holy  repose,  but  that  a  few,  my  friends,  who 
read  this  book,  may  be  alternately  sad  and  rejoicing, 
even  as  we  are,  to  know  that  there  was  one  on  earth 
of  late,  so  gentle,  so  lovely,  so  beloved  as  she,  who 
has  gone  to  the  company  which  is  gathered  of  the 
beloved  of  all  nations  and  all  times,  in  "that  beau 
tiful  country,  that  far  away  country,  where  is  no 
night  on  land  or  sea," 

to. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


The  Old  House  by  the  River,  May  1,  1854, 
THE  night  has  come  down  gloriously,  and  the  stars 
are  watching  the  river,  and  the  river  is  bahbling  to  the 
stars  its  old  story  of  the  rocks  that  so  bewilder  and 
trouble  it,  and  the  moon  is  sitting  calmly  in  the  sky,  as 
if  to  judge  between  them,  and  I  have  been  standing 
with  my  face  against  the  little  window,  looking  out,  un 
determined  to  which  party  I  shall  volunteer  my  services 
as  counsel ;  and  having  at  length  concluded  to  let  them 
plead  their  own  causes,  satisfied  that  the  moon  is  a 
changeful  judge,  and  that  neither  may  hope  for  full  jus 
tice  from  her,  and  that  I  am  better  out  of  the  quarrel, 
I  have  taken  my  position  with  my  feet  toward  the  fire, 
and  have  now  been  dreaming  away  at  least  half  an  hour 
in  reveries. 

On  the  table  lies  a  book,  a  curious  mixture  of  print 
ed  matter  and  manuscript,  which  is  none  other  than 
the  volume  now  in  the  hands  of  the  reader  of  this 
letter.  Beside  it  lies  "  The  Old  House  by  the  Iliver ;" 
and  as  that  book  was  a  history  of  years  long  gone,  it 
has  been  determined  that  this  shall  be  called  "  Later 
Years,"  as  indicating  its  contents. 

After  the  Old  House  was  closed,  years  ago,  and  our 


Vi  INTRODUCTORY. 

quiet  life  in  the  country  was  exchanged  for  the  city, 
we — that  is  to  say,  Joe  "Willis  and  myself — sought  such 
occasional  relief  as  we  might  from  the  turmoil  and 
weariness  of  city  life  in  wanderings  here  and  there, 
sometimes  in  the  forest,  sometimes  on  the  sea,  some 
times,  as  now,  at  the  Old  House,  not  unfrequently  at 
the  crowded  resorts  of  the  gay  and  pleasure-loving,  and 
very  often  up  and  down  the  streets  of  the  great  metrop 
olis.  From  time  to  time  I  wrote  sketches  of  what  we 
did,  what  we  saw,  and  what  we  thought,  and  these 
sketches  were  printed  in  the  columns  of  a  commercial 
journal  in  the  city.  Some  of  them  will  be  found  in 
thi's  volume. 

For  some  years  I  have  made  those  who  read  these 
letters  the  companions  of  many  hours  of  pleasant  con 
versation,  and  I  have  been  bold  to  think  that  there  were 
some  who  followed  our  wandering  steps  with  at  least 
a  friendly  interest.  It  is  to  such  that  I  especially  com 
mend  this  volume,  which,  in  some  measure,  contains  the 
running  history  of  our  life  during  the  later  years,  since 
we  have  entered  the  world,  and  left  the  Old  House  by 
the  River. 

Year  after  year,  with  never- failing  delight,  Willis  and 
myself  were  together  in  the  forest.  Since  that  first 
spring  morning,  when  we,  two  Highland  boys,  escaped 
from  school,  trudged  with  a  gun  between  us  up  the 
slope  of  the  mountain,  and,  sitting  on  the  topmost  peak, 
talked  of  the  world,  as  we  were  but  then  beginning  to 
know  it,  since  that  morning  when  we  date  our  first 
hunt,  we  have  had  no  word  of  difference,  no  thought  of 


INTRODUCTORY.  Vll 

unkindness.  It  was  many  years  after  that  we  discov 
ered  our  cabin.  The  stillness  and  beauty  of  the  scene 
won  us.  I  will  not  deny  that  at  that  time  I  was  in  a 
humor  to  be  won  by  any  thing  that  was  lonely  and  love 
ly.  So  we  have  made  many  pilgrimages  thither  since 
then,  and  have  had  pleasure,  not  to  be  told,  in  our  com 
panionship  in  the  forest.  That  life  over,  we  sought 
other  pleasures  and  other  amusements,  and  the  years 
sped  along.  We  are  growing  old,  Joe,  are  we  not? 
The  past  gleams  radiantly  on  us  from  out  those  long, 
dark  vistas  of  monumental  buildings,  and  starry  eyes 
seem  as  far  off  from  us  as  the  skies  above  us ! 

"  Haec  olim  meminisse  juvabit,"  was  our  motto  then, 
and  are  not  those  days  a  glorious  memory  ? 

I  wish  you  could  see  the  form  of  my  old  friend,  as  he 
stands  before  the  fire  at  this  instant,  and  replies  to  me. 
He,  at  least,  will  not  forget. 

In  publishing  these  letters,  I  have  no  apologies  to 
make  for  any  thing  I  have  said,  nor  any  explanations  to 
offer  of  any  thing  which  may  seem  strange  or  out  of 
place.  I  have  given  some  of  the  experiences  of  our  life, 
yet  I  need  not  say  that  they  have  been  but  the  few, 
while  the  many  were  for  our  own  hearts,  or  those  hearts 
which  beat  close  against  our  own.  There  are  stories 
of  those  years  that  would  fill  volumes  of  the  great  his 
tory  of  man.  There  were  experiences  of  my  own,  and 
of  my  friends,  that  surpass  in  their  exquisite  beauty, 
their  touching  mournfulness,  all  that  romance  can  fur 
nish  or  imagination  paint. 

There  are  voices  coming  up  now  to  my  ears,  as  I  sit 


Vlii  INTRODUCTORY. 

before  the  fire,  out  of  the  graves  of  those  years,  whose 
holy  tones  are  full  of  thrilling  melody.  There  were 
hours  which,  as  they  passed,  condensed  in  their  few 
minutes  more  joys  of  almost  heavenly  purity  than  you 
would  believe  earth  could  contain  in  all  its  centuries. 
There  were  scenes  that  my  pen  dare  not  attempt  to  de 
scribe,  and  emotions  that  may  be  felt,  but  not  told. 

I  have  had  but  one  rule  in  preparing  these  sketches. 
It  has  been  to  make  my  readers,  as  far  as  possible,  my 
companions  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  beautiful  wherever 
I  find  it,  whether  in  nature,  art,  memories,  or  dreams. 
I  have  lived  for  it.  I  have  worshiped  nothing  else. 
In  leading  them  along  the  same  path  I  walked,  I  have 
been  obliged  to  show  the  river  of  my  thoughts,  but  only 
its  surface,  broken  by  an  occasional  bubble  from  its 
unseen  depths. 

Believe  me,  the  beautiful  is  not  alone  in  the  exter 
nal  world,  in  forests,  or  oceans,  or  stars,  or  maidenly 
loveliness  of  eyes,  or  lips  of  winsome  wine.  There  are 
shades  and  shapes  floating  in  the  sunshine  of  fancy  that 
are  very  fair  to  look  on,  and  that  will  gladden  you  with 
their  loveliness.  I  am  no  bigot  to  believe  that  ro  aya- 
Oov  is  alone  ro  Kakov,  nor  am  I  an  enthusiast  to  bow 
down  and  worship  any  one  form  of  loveliness  as  the 
only  work  of  God  worthy  of  admiration.  But  to  those 
who  toil  and  strive  in  the  world,  I  have  tried  to  offer 
that  source  of  beauty  which  I  know  is  the  surest  in 
hopes  of  the  future,  and  in  memories  of  olden  times. 
And  now  I  challenge  reproval.  You,  worn  and  weary 
man  of  the  world,  chained  to  your  business  as  the  Ro- 


INTRODUCTORY.  IX 

man  criminal  to  a  lifeless  body,  content  to  waste  your 
self  on  the  beggarly  gold  you  toil  after,  sneering  in 
presence  of  the  world  at  aught  of  affection  or  of  mem 
ory — you  dare  not,  whatever  you  may  say  now,  you 
dare  not  shut  yourself  up  with  the  holy  memories  that 
throng  the  gates  of  your  soul,  and  forbid  them  entrance. 
You  sneer  now,  but  you  wept  last  night.  You  mutter 
contempt  now,  but  your  agony  was  on  you  as  you  walk 
ed  your  lonesome  chamber,  and  writhed  in  vain  strug 
gles  with  the  emotions  that  mastered  you.  It  is  vain 
to  talk  to  me  of  cold-hearted  men.  Men  are  hypo, 
crites,  enough  of  them,  as  I  well  know.  But  let  me 
tell  you,  where  you  find  a  man  most  cold,  most  stet  ^ed 
against  these  gentle  emotions,  most  fond  ef  sneering  at 
love  and  boyish  phantasies,  under  that  man's  flimsy 
mask  I  can  see  a  crushed  agony  !  In  his  soul  is  a  well 
of  deep,  untouched,  unstirred,  mighty  (perhaps  remorse 
ful)  memory.  The  springs  are  far  down,  and  it  is  fill 
ing  up,  up,  up,  and  ere  long  the  heavy  rock  on  the 
mouth  of  the  well  will  be  lifted,  and  the  torrent  burst 
forth ! 

God  be  with  you,  proud  man,  in  the  hour  of  your  ex 
tremity  ! 

There  will  come  to  every  man  an  hour  when  these 
gentler  sympathies  of  his  nature  will  be  all  aroused. 
Beware,  lest  in  that  hour  you  seek  an  answering  heart, 
and  seek  in  vain.  Win  love  while  you  may.  You  will 
need  it  yet. 

But  I  am  no  preacher,  and  my  pen  is  betraying  me 
into  a  homily,  I  have  someway  fancied,  too  egotisti- 

A  2 


X  INTRODUCTORY. 

cally,  perhaps,  that  I  might  move  one  heart  that  has 
"been  closed  against  the  beautiful  things  of  earth  to 
open  its  gates.  If  I  have  done  thus  much,  I  am  content. 

I  am  now  in  and  of  the  world.  No  hermit,  but 
mingling  daily  and  hourly  with  those  for  whom  I  have 
"written,  and  whose  friendly  regard  I  hope  to  retain. 
On  the  car,  the  steamer,  in  the  crowded  hotel,  the 
street,  the  concert-room,  in  one  or  the  other  of  the 
scenes  of  the  great  city,  we  may,  unknowing  and  un 
known,  jostle  against  each  other,  or  look  each  other  in 
the  face.  If  you  love  me,  look  kindly  then  on  all  you 
meet,  lest  you  frown  on  me.  Speak  gently  to  all  stran 
gers,  lest  you  some  day  sadden  me  by  unkindness. 

Some  sunny  morning  you  will  read  my  name  in  your 
paper  as  among  those  who  sleep  at  length  after  life's 
labor.  Look  with  loving  eyes,  then,  on  all  mourners 
for  my  sake,  so  that  you  send  no  new  grief  to  those 
hearts  (and  that  one  heart  of  hearts)  which  love  me 
well  enough  to  mourn  that  I  am  not ! 

The  fire  on  the  hearth-stone  is  almost  burned  out.  I 
have  been  watching  the  flickering  shadows  on  the  wall, 
and  remembering  the  forms  that  were  beautiful  in  this 
old  house,  in  the  days  of  old,  that  passed  away  as  those 
shadows  fled  when  the  hearth-fire  crumbled  down. 
Then,  as  I  watch  more  intently,  I  see  the  steady  glow 
of  the  bright  red  coals,  and  the  distinct,  unchanging  out 
line  of  the  shadows  cast  by  them.  They  do  not  flicker, 
nor  dance,  nor  change,  but  are  steadfast  there.  So  I 
compare  them  to  the  clustering  trusts  of  maturer  years, 
and  gaze  and  gaze  as  the  hours  pass  on ;  and,  though 


INTRODUCTORY.  XI 

I  know  they  are  but  shadows,  and  will  fade  in  time,  yet 
I  know  too  that  I  am  but  a  shadow,  the  shadow  of  a 
shadow,  and  so  I  fall  asleep,  dreaming  pleasant  dreams 
of  the  day  when  there  will  be  no  more  shadows  at  all. 


(CnutEtits* 

PACK 

1.  THE  MADONNA 17 

II.  SUNDAY  MORNING 26 

III.  TROUT 33 

IV,  THE    HURRICANE 41 

V.    LEGEND    OF    OWL    CREEK 48 

vi.  "  LET  ME  SLEEP" 57 

VII.    HOMEWARD 66 

VIII.    A   PLEASANT   DAY 71 

IX.    THE    HUDSON 77 

X.    CAPE    MAY 84 

XI.    AN    OLD    FRIEND 91 

XII.    THE    CABIN 99 

XIII.  A    SORE    FOOT 107 

XIV.  THE    WILLAHANNA 115 

XV.    PIKE    FISHING 121 

XVI     ANNIE    GRAY 128 

XVII.    A    FAMILY    HISTORY 137 

XVIII.    BLUE   FISH 144 

XIX.    APRIL    STORMS 153 

XX.    BLOCK    ISLAND 163 

XXI.    A    BLOCK    ISLAND    SUNDAY 169 

XXII.    THE    SOUTHEAST    BLUFFS I"75 

XXIII.    ROAD    COMPANIONS 184 


Xiv  CONTENTS. 

MM 

XXIV.    A    SEPTEMBER    MORNING 191 

XXV.    A   SEPTEMBER    DAY.  .  : 198 

XXVI.    PIGEON    SHOOTING 206 

XXVII.    ALONG    THE    ERIE    RAIL-ROAD 214 

XXVIII.    THE    HILL 220 

XXIX.    THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    DELAWARE 228 

XXX.    REST 236 

XXXI.    UP    THE    DELAWARE 244 

XXXII.    THE    FOREST 250 

XXXIII.    A  PANTHER 255 

XXXIV.    JOSHUA    SMITH 261 

XXXV.    THE    RED    MEN 269 

XXXVI.    RAIL-ROAD    ROMANCE 277 

XXXVII.    TROUT 286 

XXXVIII.    THE    OLD    PRECENTOR 1 299 

XXXIX.    HOME 307 

XL.    EGYPT    IN    NEW    YORK 315 

XLI.    A    REMINISCENCE    OF   WALL    STREET 326 

XLII.    THE    OLD    HOUSE 335 


LATER   YEARS. 


$jl*   3$  ft  ft  n  on. 

New  York,  December,  18 — . 

IT  is  a  cold  evening.  I  have  just  come  in  from  a  call 
at  the  house  of  a  friend,  whose  house  is  indeed  to 
me  almost  like  my  own,  for  the  families  pass  much  of 
their  time  together.  I  did  not  find  him  at  home.  The 
rooms  were  empty,  and  I  took  a  seat  in  the  library  to 
await  his  return ;  but  I  waited  an  hour  in  vain,  and 
then  gave  it  up  and  came  home. 

He  has  some  choice  paintings  on  the  walls  of  the 
library,  where  there  is  room  for  them,  some  of  which 
he  has  collected,  and  others  have  been  painted  for  him  ; 
and  the  hour  that  I  passed  among  them  was  not  wholly 
without  company. 

He  had  a  picture  made  from  a  scene  in  which  he 
once  joined  Joe  "Willis  and  myself.  It  is  an  exquisite 
view  of  the  Phantom,  off  Watch  Hill,  coming  in  at  sun 
set.  None  of  your  stiff,  pasteboard  pictures  of  a  vessel, 
but  a  spirited,  lively  sketch,  by  a  master  hand.  The 
very  patch  in  the  mainsail  is  perfect,  and  Joe  "Willis's 
old  hat  shows  above  the  weather  rail  precisely  as  if 
he  were  lying  on  deck  in  his  usual  free  and  easy  style, 
while  the  stiff  nor'wester  is  driving  the  spray  clear 


18  LATER    YEARS. 

over  her.  You  can  see  the  little  craft  shake  and  quiver 
to  that  sea,  and  lift  her  head  up  bravely  to  it. 

Directly  opposite  to  that  is  one  of  Sir  Peter  Lely's  in 
imitable  portraits,  an  original  of  the  second  Charles  ; 
at  least  so  say  his  artist  friends,  who  profess  to  know 
by  internal  evidence  whether  it  is  painted  from  a  sitter 
or  is  a  copy.  It  is  a  beautiful  work,  beyond  question. 
Then  there  is  a  group  of  Cupids,  full  of  life  and  frolic, 
and  a  small,  dark,  twilight  picture  of  Paulemberg,  which 
I  study  over  sometimes  by  the  hour,  to  try  and  recol 
lect  what  I  once  thought  good  in  it ;  a  landscape  which 
might  well  be  taken  for  a  Salvator,  if  it  be  not  one,  and 
— but  I  do  not  intend  a  catalogue.  I  was  but  naming 
them,  that  you  might  know  the  phantoms  which  sur 
rounded  me  in  the  fire-light. 

But  chief  of  all  the  paintings,  I  enjoy  looking  at  one 
that  I  have  not  named.  I  have  seldom  seen  a  Madon 
na  that  I  admired  except  as  a  work  of  art.  Few  faces 
of  the  Holy  Mother  in  painting  reach  the  heart  of  the 
gazer.  They  are  usually  the  countenances  of  imagina 
tion.  But  Murillo's  Madonna  was  always  to  my  mind 
beautiful  exceedingly,  and  this  is  one  of  Carlo  Maratti's 
rare  and  exquisite  copies.  We  sit  hours  and  hours  talk 
ing  and  looking  at  it ;  and  when  I  am  by  chance  alone, 
as  I  was  to-night,  I  sit  watching  the  speaking  features, 
the  large,  dark  eyes,  the  matchless  lips,  and  the  rich, 
soft  cheeks,  that  look  as  if  some  gipsy  girl  sat  for  the 
model,  and  the  face  flushes  out  and  recedes,  and  ap 
pears  and  disappears  in  the  nickering  light,  and  the 
bright  face  of  the  babe  on  her  knees  gleams  steadfastly 


THE  MADONNA.  19 

on  me  in  all  lights,  so  that  I  see  in  it  the  new-born 
hope  of  the  world.  You  can  not  but  love  that  mother 
and  child.  The  gay,  laughing  face,  and  the  beaming 
eyes  of  the  Flora  on  the  opposite  wall,  may  win  you  a 
moment,  but  you  turn  back  with  frank  emotion  to  the 
young  mother,  and  yield  homage  to  the  world  of  woman 
feeling,  woman  love,  that  dwells  in  her  gentle  counte 
nance. 

Singularly  enough,  no  one  sees  this  painting  with 
out  exclaiming  at  the  likeness  it  bears  to  some  friend, 
so  that  not  less  than  a  dozen  different  persons  have 
been  named  who  might  have  sat  for  the  face.  We  at 
tribute  this  to  the  fact  that  the  artist  has  studied  woman 
nature  so  as  to  make  a  picture  that  exhibits  all  its  love 
liness  and  gentleness,  and  each  one  who  sees  it  recog 
nizes  the  beloved  expression  of  some  gentle  woman 
friend. 

Thus  much  have  I  written  of  the  paintings  without 
intending  it,  for  I  designed  to  sketch  two  scenes  in  the 
history  of  two  persons  of  which  I  was  reminded  by  the 
fact  that  the  Madonna  is  sometimes  like  one  of  them. 
I  say  sometimes,  perhaps  I  should  say  always.  Memo 
ry  is  variable.  It  is  not  always  true  nor  always  false  ; 
nor,  when  true,  does  it  regularly  restore  the  same  faces, 
features,  and  characteristics  of  past  times  or  lost  friends. 
Thus,  in  this  case,  when  the  house  is  filled  with  gay- 
ety,  and  the  rooms  are  ringing  to  the  sounds  of  music 
and  laughter-lovmg  voices,  if,  with  some  of  the  visit 
ors,  I  turn  into  this  quiet  room,  and  pause  before  the 
soft  dove  eyes  of  the  Madonna,  they  light  up  with  a 


20  LATER    YEARS. 

glow  of  youth,  and  joy-loving  youth  too ;  and  anon,  I 
remember  one  who  w*as  as  radiant  as  these  in  all  the 
magnificence  of  young  beauty,  in  all  the  queenly  splen 
dor  of  an  admired,  almost  a  worshipped  woman.  The 
picture  is  like,  yet  not  like  her,  then.  At  other  times, 
when,  as  to-night,  I  am  alone,  or  when  the  few  who 
claim  that  room  as  ours  pre-eminently  are  there  to 
gether,  and  the  eyes  of  the  Holy  Virgin  look  lovingly 
on  us,  we  see  the  angelic  beauty  that  we  remember  of 
old,  and  then  it  is  very  like  the  presence  of  our  friend. 

I  remember  the  radiant  beauty  of  Alice  Macdonald 
very  many  years  ago,  when  I  was  a  mere  boy.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  wealthy  men  of  the  city, 
who  had  also  a  country  residence  near  the  old  place  of 
which  I  have  spoken,  and  she  passed  the  earlier  part  of 
her  life  entirely  in  the  country.  She  had  grown  up  to 
womanhood  with  a  heart  full  of  all  the  beautiful  adorn 
ments  of  a  good,  true  woman's  heart,  and  it  was  not  to 
be  feared  that  contact  with  society  would  produce  any 
of  the  chilling  or  searing  effect  that  it  has  on  so  many  ; 
for  too  many  young  hearts  are  frozen  to  ice  by  world- 
liness,  or  seared  to  callousness  by  burning  experiences 
in  the  contacts  of  this  great  city. 

Years  have  passed  now,  and  the  story  of  her  youth 
may  be  told,  though  in  her  lifetime  it  was  unknown. 

Frederick  "Winter  was  the  son  of  the  pastor  of  the  old 
church.  Mr.  Winter  was  not  wealthy,  but  educated 
his  children,  and  they  were  noble  men.  Fred  was  a 
great  favorite,  and  deservedly  so.  "Where  he  met 
Miss  Macdonald  I  do  not  know,  but  I  take  it  they  had 


THE  MADONNA.  21 

grown  up  together  from  childhood.  No  one,  howev 
er,  suspected  them  of  any  attachment,  and,  though 
often  together,  they  displayed  no  special  affection  for 
each  other.  But  love  thrives  in  secret,  and  they  did 
love. 

I  must  pass  on  to  the  two  scenes  I  intended  to  sketch. 
I  did  not  and  do  not  intend  any  history  of  this  affection 
or  of  these  persons.  It  is  my  design  only  to  sketch  a 
country  and  a  city  scene. 

Frederick  Winter  was  not  well  when  he  returned  from 
college  after  graduating,  and  after  a  few  weeks  of  strug 
gling  he  gave  up  entirely,  and  lay  down  in  his  father's 
house  to  die.  It  was  a  terrible  blow  to  the  old  man  and 
to  the  family,  but  far  more  terrible  to  Alice,  who  was 
alone  in  her  agony.  She  could  not  approach  him,  nor 
hear  from  him  directly,  for  no  one  knew  of  her  love,  not 
even  Frederick  himself,  though  he  had  wooed  her  for 
years  with  earnest  devotion. 

And  at  length  the  end  came.  It  was  a  soft  Novem 
ber  morning.  The  sun  shone  pleasantly  down  through 
the  leafless  branches  of  the  trees  in  front  of  the  pastor's 
house.  There  was  a  quail  whistling  in  the  field  near 
by,  and  the  sick  boy  smiled  as  the  sharp,  clear  note  of 
the  bird  came  in  at  the  window,  which  was  slightly  open 
to  let  in  the  soft  air.  The  old  gate  creaked  on  its  hinges 
as  the  hired  man  opened  it  to  drive  the  cow  into  the 
street,  and  down  to  the  pasture,  and  creaked'  again  as  it 
swung  back,  and  the  wooden  latch  rattled  into  its  place. 
There  was  a  blue-jay  in  the  wood  near  the  house,  and 
his  shrill  scream  rang  in  the  still  air  with  painful  dis- 


22  LATER    YEARS. 

tinctness  ;  and  a  passing  flight  of  crows  went  over  the 
forest  with  monotonous  voices. 

All  these  sounds  came  into  the  room  with  musical 
clearness.  Musical,  for  they  were  the  familiar  sounds 
now  heard  for  the  last  time,  unless  in  the  resurrection 
we  may  return  to  our  old  homes. 

In  the  room  was  deep  silence.  It  was  a  large  old 
room,  with  low  ceiling  and  uneven  floor.  The  bed  stood 
in  the  corner.  The  chairs  were  plain  wooden-seated 
chairs,  with  arms  of  hickory,  or  some  other  flexible  wood. 
There  was  a  rag  carpet  on  the  floor,  covering  only  part 
of  it ;  the  remainder  was  bare,  but  white  and  clean. 
The  windows  were  filled  with  small,  old-fashioned  panes 
of  glass,  and  the  sunshine  stole  pleasantly  in,  and  fell  on 
the  floor  with  a  soft  radiance  that  seemed  to  speak  of 
Heaven. 

The  light  of  life  was  going  out  of  the  eyes  of  the  sick 
boy.  I  call  him  boy,  for  his  father  and  mother  could 
not  yet  think  him  other  than  their  cherished  little  one. 
The  world  was  vanishing ;  the  last  words  were  spoken 
long  ago.  Speech  had  departed,  but  consciousness  and 
love  remained.  Visions  of  the  fading  present  flitted 
around  him,  and  the  radiant  features  of  his  boy-love 
began  to  assume  the  angelic  beauty  of  the  new  country 
into  which  he  was  passing.  Slowly,  slowly,  from  the 
fair  country  side,  from  the  old  parsonage,  from  the  low 
room,  from  the  dear  arms  of  his  beloved  mother,  from 
the  creaking  gate,  and  screaming  jay,  and  whistling 
quail,  he  passed  away  into  the  dark  and  silent  unknown. 

Alice  Macdonald  sat  in  the  room  where  she  had  often 


THE    MADONNA.  23 

received  Frederick  "Winter.  It  was  the  library  of  her 
father's  country  residence,  and  its  window  opened  to 
ward  the  village.  She  had  not  slept  that  night,  and 
she  wrapped  herself  in  the  folds  of  a  magnificent  shawl 
as  she  sat  there,  for  though  the  air  was  warm  like  sum 
mer,  she  was  shivering.  The  window  was  open.  She 
would  have  it  so,  and  she  looked  toward  the  spire  of 
the  church,  and  saw  the  clock  hands  pointing  to  half 
past  ten,  when  the  stroke  of  the  bell  fell  on  her  ears. 
She  trembled  like  a  leaf,  and  sprang  to  the  window, 
holding  the  sill  in  her  grasp  with  fingers  that  clung  like 
the  fingers  of  a  drowning  person  to  a  wreck  while  she 
counted  ten  strokes,  and  a  pause.  Oh,  that  it  would 
not  strike  again !  It  does  not.  The  interval  is  long — 
longer ;  a  hope  has  time  to  spring,  to  grow,  to  blossom 
in  that  instant,  and  to  die  as  the  bell  resumes  its  heavy 
story,  and  then  each  stroke  destroys  a  hope  that  has 
risen  since  the  last.  Would  that  the  bell  might  cease  ! 
Seventeen,  eighteen,  it  go£s  on  with  terrible,  with  dead 
ly  voice.  Nineteen,  twenty,  and  it  pauses  but  an  in 
stant,  and  adds  one.  She  was  pale  and  white  as  if 
dead,  and,  burying  her  face  in  the  folds  of  her  shawl, 
she  sank  feebly  on  her  knees  before  the  window,  where 
she  remained  motionless  for  nearly  an  hour.  After  that 
she  arose,  and  her  face  and  her  heart  were  alike  calm. 
Many  years  have  passed  since  that  morning.  I  will 
not  number  them.  Miss  Macdonald  returned  to  the  city 
with  her  father  in  the  course  of  the  next  winter.  She 
did  not  go  much  into  society ;  but  when  she  did,  she 
was  admired  and  loved.  But  she  did  not  marry.  She 


24  LATER    YEARS. 

grew  to  be  an  old  maid,  but  she  never  lost  her  beauty. 
I  will  not  pause  here,  as  I  might,  to  say  a  word  for  old 
maids.  I  never  see  one  without  remembering  Alice. 

It  was  a  winter  evening.  The  sun  had  left  a  cold 
world.  The  sound  of  passing  feet  on  the  pavement  was 
sharp,  and  the  tread  of  the  thousands  hastening  home 
ward  rang  with  distinctness  in  the  room  of  the  dying 
old  maid.  It  was  a  richly-furnished  room,  in  a  large 
house  on  a  stately  avenue.  Heavy  curtains  of  satin- 
lined  damask  were  on  the  windows ;  the  carpets  were 
velvet ;  the  furniture  crimson  and  rosewood.  All  was 
plain,  but  rich  and  costly.  The  stand  near  the  bed  was 
worth  ten  times  all  the  furniture  in  the  old  parsonage, 
and  the  heavy  plate  that  was  on  it  would  have  pur 
chased  the  parsonage  and  grounds.  A  soft  light  was 
in  the  room  from  a  lamp  standing  in  a  marble  vase, 
through  which  it  shed  a  dim  glow,  but  just  sufficient  to 
enable  persons  to  move  to  and  fro. 

The  heavy  roar  of  passing  stages  shook  the  house 
constantly.  Somewhere,  not  many  blocks  distant,  a 
factory,  that  had  discharged  its  workmen  at  six  o'clock, 
was  now  discharging  its  principal  laborer,  steam,  and 
the  shrill  sound  of  the  escape  pipe  united  with  the  noise 
of  the  street  to  disturb  the  dying  woman. 

But  as  the  night  passed  on,  the  sounds  had  less  effect 
on  her  ears  as  they  grew  more  dull  to  earthly  sensa 
tions,  and  the  voices  of  the  other  world  began  to  fill 
them.  At  midnight  she  died.  The  good,  true  heart 
found  warmth  in  death — such  warmth  as  it  had  never 
known  since  the  sad  morning  in  the  country  so  long 


THE    MADONNA.  25 

ago.  The  welcomes  of  that  other  world  who  can  de 
scribe  !  The  coming  in,  on  its  glad  scenes,  of  dear  old 
faces  long  loved,  long  waited  for,  to  bless  the  very  bless 
ings  of  Heaven ! 

She  died  ;  and  as  she  folded  her  hands  across  her 
breast,  and  looked  toward  Heaven,  and  saw  the  glory, 
and  entered  into  it,  and  as  the  peace  of  death  fell  calm 
ly,  triumphantly  on  her  white  brow,  the  roar  of  passing 
carriages  grew  louder,  and  a  ringing  laugh  of  drunken 
revelers  came  up  into  the  room  from  the  pavement,  and 
the  bell  of  the  neighboring  church  tolled  twelve,  and 
paused,  and  all  went  on  as  before.  The  great  city, 
ceaseless  in  its  succession  of  work  and  pain,  and  revel 
and  agony,  ceased  not  one  moment  because  one  heart 
less  beat  in  its  midst.  There  were  many  other  hearts 
that  ceased  to  beat  about  that  time,  and  for  no  one  of 
them  all  did  the  passing  bell  sound.  But  the  morning 
dawned  with  cold  gray  light,  and  the  streets  were 
thronged  again,  and  all  was  as  before.  But  I  do  not 
think  all  was  the  same  up  yonder  where  they  met,  for 
I  think — I  trust — I  believe — that  the  old  maid  was 
young,  and  fair,  and  radiant  again,  and  that  the  boy's 
dying  vision  of  angel  eyes  was  at  length  a  glad  reality. 
B 


II. 

J>  ti  it  i  n  tj   31J  n  r  n  i  n  g. 

New  York,  February,  18 — . 

NO  day  in  the  city  affords  so  great  a  contrast  to  the 
country  as  Sunday,  and  this  not  alone  in  the  thou 
sand  gay  people  who  throng  the  streets,  nor  in  the  noisy 
riot  and  confusion  that  make  a  Sunday  evening  more 
hideous  than  any  other,  both  of  which  scenes  are  so 
unlike  the  calm  solemnity  of  the  country  folk,  but  still 
more  in  the  forms  and  appearances  of  devotion,  the 
manners  and  styles  of  worship.  Few  who  have  been 
brought  up  in  the  city  have  any  idea  of  the  holiness  of 
a  country  Sabbath ;  none  who  were  born  and  bred  in 
the  country  will  ever  forget  it.  For  the  right  heart, 
indeed,  the  day  is  the  same  every  where ;  and  the  for 
est  sanctuary,  with  its  hemlock  spire  and  leafy  arches, 
is  a  temple  for  no  more  nor  less  fervent  praise  than  the 
massive  stone  nave  and  dark  chancel  of  the  cathedral. 
But  no  man  could  pass  a  Sunday  in  a  certain  country 
place  that  I  could  name,  and  not  find  himself  a  better, 
or,  at  least,  a  calmer  man  in  the  evening  than  he  was  at 
morning  ;  and  at  this  day  it  is  something  to  be  calm — 
to  be,  for  a  little,  more  quiet  and  peaceful. 

There  are  hours  when  the  memory  of  those  calm 


SUNDAY    MORNING.  27 

Sunday  mornings  comes  over  the  soul  with  a  tender 
ness  no  words  can  describe,  and  over  the  eyes  with  a 
blinding  mist  that  shuts  out  all  the  present.  There 
was  a  something  in  the  very  atmosphere  unlike  other 
days.  They  were  glorious  mornings,  when  the  air  was 
as  calm  as  we  sometimes  fancy  must  be  the  air  of  the 
better  country,  and  the  sunshine  pure,  clear,  and  radi 
ant  on  the  snow.  The  bell  of  the  old  church  would 
sound  with  an  uncommon  richness  and  purity  of  tone 
on  such  mornings,  and  the  tinkle  of  sleigh-bells  had 
not  half  the  merriment,  but  had  ten  times  the  music  of 
other  days. 

I  remember  a  morning  like  this  "  in  the  long  gone 
years  ;"  not  such  as  I  have  described,  but  such  a  one 
as  this  on  which  I  am  now  writing.  It  was  very  cold. 
The  sky  was  covered  with  flying  clouds — misty,  thin, 
cold  clouds,  that  drifted  furiously  on  the  wind.  Only 
now  and  then  did  the  sun  shine  on  the  front  of  the  old 
church  ;  and  when  it  did,  it  seemed  only  to  make  every 
thing  appear  colder,  so  little  of  cheer  was  there  in  the 
beams. 

The  sleighs  of  the  church-goers  came  up  one  by  one 
to  the  open  space  which  had  been  cleared  in  the  snow, 
and,  dismounting  here,  they  hastened  into  the  warm 
air  of  the  church ;  for  in  those  days  a  stove  had  been 
introduced,  though  it  was  unusual,  and  had  met  some 
opposition  from  the  old  people. 

Joe  and  myself  had  reached  the  door,  and  turned 
around  for  a  moment  to  gather  the  folds  of  our  cloaks, 
which  the  fierce  wind  had  much  disarranged,  for  we 


28  LATER    YEARS. 

always  made  a  point  of  entering  the  ehurch  decorously 
and  with  dignity.  As  we  turned,  we  saw  two  persons 
dismounting,  who  are  the  subjects  of  this  sketch. 

I  propose  to  write  of  them  simply  because  their  faces 
came  across  my  vision  this  morning  with  startling  dis 
tinctness.  It  was  at  the  church  door  in  the  city  that  I 
saw  them,  as  I  turned  from  the  paved  sidewalk  into  the 
iron  gate.  The  wind  was  so  furious  that  I  closed  my 
eyes,  and  buried  my  face  in  my  cloak,  and  pushed 
hastily  into  the  porch.  "  Surely,"  thought  I,  "  it  could 
not  be  that  I  saw  any  one  then.  Who  was  it  ?  What 
vision  flashed  before  me  ?"  I  looked  back,  but  no  one 
was  there  to  whom  I  could  attribute  that  dream — for 
dream  it  must  have  been.  But  when  I  was  seated, 
and  caught  in  the  voluntary,  which  a  skillful  hand  was 
playing,  a  strain  of  familiar  music,  then  the  faces  I  had 
seen  came  back  with  all  the  distinctness  of  reality,  and 
I  remembered  the  Sabbath  morning  of  which  I  am  now 
writing. 

As  we  turned,  we  paused  ;  for  who  could  look  at 
such  a  scene  without  pausing.  Even  on  the  thresh 
old  of  the  holy  place,  with  minds  and  hearts  direct 
ed  toward  the  worship  of  God,  we  paused  to  do  hom 
age  to  his  beautiful  work,  and  waited  to  look  at  the  ex 
quisite  loveliness  of  a  woman.  William  Douglas  was 
a  poor  old  man.  But  in  his  poverty  and  feeble  old  age, 
he  was  more  fit  to  be  a  king  than  any  man  that  ever 
reigned.  He  was  of  tall  and  commanding  stature,  and 
his  countenance  was  regal.  He  had  not  lived  for  sev 
enty  years  in  vain.  But  he  had  grown  with  the  years 


SUNDAY    MORNING.  29 

of  his  toil — grown  in  mental  stature  and  strength  ;  and 
now  that  he  was  ready  to  depart,  you  looked  at  him  as 
one  who  had  been  preparing  to  assume  a  throne,  and 
you  knew,  when  you  saw  him,  that  he  was  but  a  fool 
who  believed  that  such  a  man  could  ever  die. 

And  now  he  stood  before  the  church  door,  in  the 
bleak  wind,  on  which  his  white  hair  streamed  as  he 
lifted  his  hat  reverently  from  his  head,  as  was  his  cus 
tom,  and  paused  a  moment  to  pray  before  he  entered 
the  house  of  his  God. 

The  air  was  filled  with  driving,  drifting  snow,  that 
mingled  with  his  hair,  and  dashed  across  his  withered 
cheeks.  But  he  cared  nothing  for  the  snow.  His 
thoughts  were  on  a  country  where  there  is  no  storm, 
no  wind  but  the  soft  breath  of  love.  He  looked  up, 
not  at  the  spire  of  the  church,  not  at  the  drifting  clouds 
above  the  spire,  not  at  the  blue  breaks  and  the  fath 
omless  sky  beyond  the  clouds,  but  up,  up  into  the  infi 
nite  mysteries  of  God's  love,  and  into  the  abode  of  his 
servants,  and  his  lips  moved  in  words  that  were  inaudi 
ble  here,  but  that  filled  the  courts  of  that  great  country 
with  their  simple  and  sublime  earnestness. 

All  this  time,  and  it  was  but  a  moment,  Ellen  Doug 
las,  his  grandchild,  stood  peacefully  by  his  side,  and 
the  same  wind  and  snow  were  dallying  with  the  mass 
es  of  her  brown  hair,  or,  rather,  were  striving  to  do  so, 
but  were  kept  mostly  away  by  the  close  hood  that  she 
wore  for  lack  of  more  showy  head  gear.  She  was  a 
tall  and  slender  girl,  whose  beauty  was  beyond  praise. 
The  old  man,  skilled  in  learning,  had  devoted  the  last 


30  LATER    YEARS. 

ten  years  of  his  life  to  her  education,  and  though  she 
could  neither  dance,  draw,  nor  paint,  she  could  translate 
a  strophe  of  Sophocles,  and  some  even  went  so  far  as 
to  assert  that  she  could  read  the  books  of  Moses  in  the 
original  tongue. 

Their  cottage  was  a  curious  place.  The  old  man's 
means  were  very  slender,  yet  he  had  contrived  to  live 
comfortably  in  this  cottage,  and  to  bring  up  his  orphan 
grand-daughter  on  the  income  of  a  small  property  left 
her  by  her  father. 

She  was  no  blue.  She  would  not  have  known  what 
the  word  meant.  Greek  and  Latin  were  to  her  like 
the  spelling  and  arithmetic  of  other  children.  Day  aft 
er  day,  week  after  week,  year  after  year,  she  had  lived 
alone  in  the  little  cottage  with  the  old  man  and  his 
store  of  books  ;  and  her  sole  employment  and  enjoy 
ment  had  been  to  join  him  in  all  his  studies,  to  assist 
him  in  all  his  fancies,  and  to  learn  from  him  every  thing 
that  his  well-stored  mind  could  furnish  for  her  grasp. 
When  for  a  little  she  mingled  with  others,  she  was  like 
all  young  maidens  of  her  age,  gentle,  retiring,  and  some 
what  shy,  only  there  was  a  look  of  maturity  in  her 
deep  and  beautiful  eye  that  attracted  you  toward  her, 
and  then  the  exquisite  simplicity  of  her  character  won 
your  heart. 

For  a  moment,  I  have  said,  she  stood  quietly  by  the 
old  man's  side,  and  it  may  be  that  she  joined  in  his 
simple  act  of  worship,  as  she  bowed  her  head.  As  he 
replaced  his  hat  and  advanced  toward  the  porch,  she 
raised  her  head,  and  the  wind,  with  a  sudden  sweep  of 


SUNDAY    MORNING.  31 

fun  or  fury,  burst  the  strings  of  her  hood,  and  carried  it 
out  among  the  grave-stones,  the  tops  of  which  but  just 
stood  out  of  the  snow.  And  then,  as  she  raised  her 
hands  involuntarily,  with  a  slight  exclamation  of  sur 
prise,  the  magnificent  masses  of  her  hair  streamed  out 
in  waves  of  light,  and  at  the  same  instant  she  let  go 
the  folds  of  her  long  blue  cloth  cloak,  and  that,  too,  was 
thrown  back,  hanging  only  by  the  clasp  at  her  throat, 
revealing  the  symmetry  of  her  form,  clad  in  a  woollen 
dress,  tight  at  the  throat  and  waist,  elsewhere  loose 
and  graceful,  though  severely  simple. 

"Was  it  not  a  scene  for  memory  ?  A  thousand  times, 
in  later  years,  I  have  recalled  that  scene.  How  beau 
tiful  she  was,  as  the  flush  of  surprise  and  modest  con 
fusion  lit  up  her  radiant  face !  And  there  she  stood,  ir 
resolute,  not  knowing  for  the  moment  what  to  do,  and 
her  glorious  hair  flowed  like  a  torrent  on  the  wind,  and 
her  cloak  streamed  back,  and  her  eyes  flashed,  and  then 
half  filled  with  tears,  and  the  wind  and  the  snow  play 
ed  with  her  warm  red  cheek. 

Have  I  not  said  that  this  was  in  the  long  gone  years  ? 
"Why  should  I  go  on  with  more  ?  Let  me  leave  her 
standing  there,  young  and  radiant  in  her  loveliness  as 
a  statue.  Let  me  leave  her  there  for  you  to  see  her  as 
I  have  seen  her  ever  since,  the  incarnation  of  youth  and 
purity. 

But  it  may  not  be.  And  yet  they  left  her  there  who 
loved  her  best — -just  there  ! 

The  snow  was  gone.  The  first  spring  violets,  bloom 
ing  not  six  feet  from  that  path,  were  disturbed  to  make 


32  LATER    YEARS. 

her  grave.  I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  more  of  her.  It 
was  not  my  intention  to  speak  of  any  scene  but  that  in 
the  church-yard.  When  the  May  mornings  came,  the 
old  man  came  alone  to  the  church,  and  paused,  as  before, 
each  Sunday  morning,  half  way  from  the  gate  to  the 
door,  and  prayed  ;  and  sometimes  I  could  see  the  strug 
gle  in  his  soul,  as  he  hardly  knew  whether  to  look  down 
at  the  newly-made  grave  close  by  his  feet,  where  lay 
hidden  all  he  had  loved  on  earth,  or  as  of  old  up  to  the 
God  that  had  given  and  taken  her.  But  then  I  could 
see  the  victory  too,  for  the  victory  was  always  the  same, 
and  he  would  raise  his  now  bent  body  up  to  its  full 
stature,  and  slowly,  and  as  if  with  difficulty,  would  lift 
his  eyes  from  the  grave  up  the  church  side,  up  the  tall 
spire,  up  to  the  fleeting  clouds  and  changeful  "sky,  and 
then  I  could  see  that  he  looked  on,  on,  into  the  fathom 
less  beauty  of  the  abyss  above,  deeper  than  ever  before 
into  the  infinite  glory  of  God's  love ;  and  that,  as  he 
prayed,  he  heard  a  voice  inaudible  to  our  ears,  but  clear, 
and  pure,  and  ravishing  to  his  keener  hearing — a  voice 
that  seemed  to  him  to  surpass  the  songs  of  all  the  other 
inhabitants  of  that  long-looked-for  home ! 


III. 

€  t  n  ti  1 

Owl  Creek  Cabin,  May,  18—. 

WITH  greater  pleasure  than  I  can  well  describe,  I 
date  again  from  the  scene  of  so  many  pleasant 
days  and  months  in  past  times,  of  a  few  of  which  you 
have  heard,  but  more  of  which  are  treasured  memories 
between  Willis  and  myself.  I  had  much  feared  my  in 
ability  to  escape,  for  a  single  day  this  spring,  from  the 
duties  of  a  life  that  is  closely  involving  me  now  in  the 
meshes  of  business,  and  I  had  written  condolatory  letters 

to  J ,  and  to  the  doctor,  and  to  Joe,  on  the  position 

in  which  each  of  us  seemed  to  be  placed.  But,  seeing 
daylight  dimly  through  the  cloud  of  engagements  before 
me,  I  suddenly  determined  to  write  to  Joe,  who  is  now 

at  his  place  in ,  and  if  he  said  yes  to  my  letter,  I 

thought  I  might  leave  for  a  few  days,  and  return  fitter 
for  labor.  I  wrote  to  him.  His  reply  was  character 
istic.  I  can  not  forbear  giving  the  conclusion  of  it : 

"  So  you  see,  my  dear  Philip,  how  impossible  it  is. 

Were  it  for  only  this  one  cause,  I  am  bound  here  ;  but 

I  fear  much  that  I  shall  not  escape.     I  have  made  up 

my  mind  to  forego  all  our  old  pleasures,  and  to  give  up 

B2 


34  LATER    YEARS. 

any  hope  of  ever  again  sunning  myself  of  a  May  morn 
ing  on  the  rock  "by  the  cabin.  Our  hunting  days  are 
over.  We  are  all  growing  to  be  worldlings,  and  our 
hearts  are  learning  at  this  late  day  (when  we  might 
have  thought  them  proof  against  coldness)  to  beat  by 
rule.  We  shall  not  hunt  together  much  more.  Yet, 
Philip, '  heec  olim  meminisse  juvabit,'  and  some  quiet  day, 
when  we  are  very  old  (older  than  now,  friend  of  my 
heart),  we  will  take  our  rusted  rifles  and  one  of  Nora's 
descendants,  and  walk  out  to  the  bank  where  the  ruins 
of  our  cabin  will  be  lying,  and,  throwing  ourselves  on 
the  rock,  will  lave  our  feet  again  in  the  stream,  and, 
falling  asleep  in  the  sunshine,  dream  of  the  past  and  all 
its  memories ! 

"  But  be  not  saddened  at  the  change !  Life  is  but  a 
series  of  changes,  each  loss  being  made  up  by  a  gain. 
If  we  may  not  worship  again  together  in  our  forest 
temple,  nor  join  our  voices  of  a  Sunday  evening  in 
praise  with  the  thunder  of  the  sea,  there  is  no  sanctu 
ary  so  sacred  as  a  loving  heart,  and  no  melody  of  praise 
so  pure  as  the  voices  of  the  loved  joining  in  joyous 
songs.  If  we  may  not  be  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  moan  of 
the  pine-trees,  or  the  ripple  of  the  musical  waves  far 
out  at  sea,  we  shall  sleep  as  pleasantly,  as  deeply,  as 
sweetly,  if  the  soul,  with  cheerful,  earnest  thoughts, 
will  but  sing  itself  to  slumber. 

"  We  shall  sleep  soon,  sleep  solemnly,  nor  voice  of 
love  nor  voice  of  tempest  wake  us.  I  remember,  that 
night,  years  ago,  when  we  breasted  the  waves  a  hund 
red  miles  at  sea,  that  I  then  thought  our  struggle  was 


TROUT.  35 

like  life.  Side  by  side  we  swam,  and  side  by  side  we 
now  swim  in  the  sea  of  life.  The  shore  is  far  away 
as  then.  I  remember  that  you  raised  your  head,  and 
asked  me  if  I  could  not  hear  the  surf  roar  on  the  beach. 
Lift  your  head  now,  and  you  will  hear  the  thunder  of 
the  waves,  as  one  by  one  they  break  on  the  shore  of 
eternity.  Do  you  not  hear  that  deep-toned  voice  from 
the  gloom  before  us  1  But  we  will  not  falter  now,  and 
the  wave  that  dashes  us  on  the  beach  will  be  a  blue 
one,  breaking  on  a  golden  shore,  whose  murmur  in  our 
weary  ears  will  be  a  lullaby  to  long  and  longed-for  rest. 
Throw  your  arm  around  my  neck,  old  friend,  and  let  us 
swim  on !  Forgive  my  refusal.  Could  you  see  me,  I 
would  not  speak  a  word,  but  point  you  to  my  desk,  and 
let  my  '  chains'  plead  for  me.  '  I  can't  get  out,'  as 
Sterne's  starling  said.  We'll  be  at  Saratoga  in  August 
for  a  little  while.  That's  understood,  is  it  not  ?  Please 

say  to ,  &c.,  &c.  [private  matters]. 

"  Truthfully  alway,  J.  W. 

"  P.S. — I'll  go.  Lend  me  your  hazel  rod — the  one 
with  the  heavy  butt.  Mine  is  out  of  order. 

"J.  W." 

And  he  is  here.  The  trout  seem  to  know  him,  and 
take  his  hook  far  more  willingly  than  they  take  mine. 
He  has,  until  to-day,  taken  by  far  the  largest  fish  and 
the  largest  quantity.  "Where  he  is  at  this  moment  I 
can  not  imagine.  He  went  out  an  hour  before  sunset, 
saying  he  would  return  to  supper  within  thirty  min 
utes,  and  has  not  been  seen  since.  Nora  is  with  him. 


36  LATER    YEARS. 

The  music  which  fills  my  ears  is  such  as  I  have  not 
heard  in  months  before.  The  wind,  breathing  through 
the  tree-tops,  joins  with  the  murmur  of  the  river  in  a 
low,  deep  tone  of  perfect  harmony.  Centuries  have 
taught  them  to  accord  well.  I  raise  my  eyes,  and  meet 
the  familiar  gleam  of  a  star  through  the  little  window, 
joining  with  the  water  and  the  wind  to  tempt  me  out. 
But  I  will  not  be  tempted.  Yet  I  can  sit  here  and 
gaze  and  listen.  I  am  aware  that  my  habit  of  star 
gazing  is  called  by  all  manner  of  ill-natured  names,  and 
that  I  am  ridiculed  for  my  love  of  these  bright  com 
panions.  But  what  care  I  ?  I  can  enjoy  what  you, 
who  ridicule  star-gazers,  can  not.  I  have  a  love  for 
looking  at  the  stars.  I  believe  that  God  made  them  to 
be  looked  at,  gazed  at,  night  after  night,  year  after 
year,  age  after  age,  in  their  solemn  immutability.  And 
BO  I  gaze  and  gaze,  until  my  soul  is  away  among  them 
freer  than  the  winds  of  earth,  freer  than  the  glance 
of  mortal  eye.  What  a  page  of  truths  God  has  made 
the  sky !  "What  a  volume  of  lessons  !  Shall  I  read  you 
one  from  the  book  ?  Let  me  find  a  text.  Ah,  here  is 
one. 

"  To  love  a  bright  particular  star  and  think  to  wed 
it."  What  a  glorious  love  that  is  which  makes  its  ob 
ject  appear  a  thing  of  heaven.  Unattainable  at  the 
first,  but  as  its  holy  kisses  fall  on  the  lover's  forehead, 
as  its  matchless  beauty  melts  into  his  soul,  as  its  wild 
caresses  are  flung  on  him,  and  its  embraces  are  close 
around  him,  he  forgets  that  he  adores  a  star,  and 
"  thinks  to  wed  it."  And  as  he  reaches  out  his  arms 


TROUT.  37 

to  take  and  give  again  the  long  embrace,  as  he  strives 
to  strain  his  idol  to  his  heart,  lo !  it  is  gone !  passed 
into  the  serene  blue  deep,  lost  in  the  illimitable  sky ! 
Vainly  he  watches  for  its  coming,  vainly  calls  on  his 
lost  one.  So  at  length  a  night  comes  on,  and  when  it 
has  gathered  gloom,  the  star,  the  holy  star,  is  there 
again  !  But  he  reaches  out  no  arms  for  embraces  now. 
He  sees  his  idol,  he  feels  those  kisses  falling  as  holily 
on  his  brow ;  but  the  star-beams  are  tears — scalding 
tears  !  And  he  knows  now,  with  aching  eyes  and  dew- 
wet  forehead,  that  his  angel  love  is  but  a  phantom,  or 
at  best  a  memory.  And  whenever  a  night  of  desola 
tion  comes,  the  star  is  there  !  The  darker  the  night, 
the  holier  the  gleam ! 

There,  you  have  a  sermon.  Apply  it  to  any  earthly 
hope,  and  see  how  it  fits.  The  moral,  then,  is  to  place 
not  too  much  dependence  even  on  stars. 

But  you  are  asking  what  I  am  here  for.  I  forgot  to 
intimate  that  I  came  to  take  trout.  As  to  success  thus 
far,  it  has  been  moderate,  and  the  sport  is  scarcely 
as  good  as  usual.  I  have  seen  a  very  few  large  fish 
this  year.  I  took  a  good  one  this  morning,  which  made 
up  for  previous  failures. 

It  is  quite  too  early  for  flies,  and  we  have  angled 
with  bait  altogether  until  to-day.  This  morning,  hav 
ing  taken  out  and  put  back  half  a  dozen  fish,  averaging 
less  than  half  a  pound  each,  I  at  length  reached  a  basin 
from  which  I  have  landed  some  noble  fellows.  I  de 
termined,  considering  the  brilliancy  of  the  morning  and 
the  softness  of  the  air,  to  try  a  dull  gray  fly,  which 


38  LATER    YEARS. 

looks  like  nothing  that  ever  had  life,  but  which  is 
taking  to  a  trout's  eye.  Preparing  my  line  for  a  very 
long  cast,  and  approaching  the  basin  near  its  upper 
end,  I  took  my  position  against  a  rock,  and  lifted  my 
line,  allowing  the  wind  to  carry  it  over  the  water.  At 
the  point  where  the  stream  falls  over  the  rock  into  the 
basin,  the  water  is,  perhaps,  six  feet  or  more  in  depth, 
and  the  bottom  is  solid  rock.  The  bank,  however,  on 
the  side  opposite  to  me,  was  a  mass  of  moss  and  fern 
overhanging  the  clear  stream,  and  now  shading  it  from 
the  sun.  The  basin  was  some  forty  feet  wide,  and  I 
allowed  my  fly  to  fall  to  the  surface  close  to  the  bank, 
and  not  far  from  the  fall.  It  barely  touched  the  ripple, 
and  a  slight  cast  threw  it  a  few  inches  up  stream  from 
the  top  of  a  ripple  to  the  top  of  the  next,  and  I  was 
lifting  it  again,  when  the  water  parted  over  the  back  of 
a  beautiful  fellow,  who  lazily  lifted  himself  out,  and 
fell  back  just  touching  the  bend  of  the  hook  with  his 
nose.  It  was  enough,  however.  He  had  smelled  the 
small  piece  of  worm  that  was  on  the  hook  under  the 
fly's  wings,  and  I  only  feared,  from  his  fatness  and  lazi 
ness,  that  the  exertion  of  that  leap  might  have  disin 
clined  him  to  try  it  again. 

I  threw  again,  however,  and  succeeded  in  giving  the 
tremulous,  hesitating  motion  to  my  fly  as  it  approached 
the  water,  which  is  both  desirable  and  difficult,  and  as 
it  touched  the  surface,  a  rush  showed  me  two  trout's 
heads,  but  of  course  only  one  succeeded  in  hooking  him 
self.  It  was  doubtless  the  same  one,  for  my  reel  flew 
around  at  a  swift  rate,  and  my  rod  bent  quite  too  much 
to  please  me. 


TROUT.  39 

The  trout  went  down  stream,  carrying  fifteen  fath 
oms  of  line  with  him.  I  could  spare  only  twenty-five, 
and  therefore  started  after  him,  over  rocks,  fallen  trees, 
across  the  bed  of  a  small  stream,  and  through  a  marshy 
place  some  rods  wide,  at  full  pace.  He  behaved  oddly, 
crossing  from  one  side  of  the  stream  to  the  other,  diving 
under  a  bank,  or  a  rock,  or  a  stump,  down  a  rapid,  and 
straight  through  another  basin,  until  I  came  to  a  spot 
where  my  progress  was  barred.  A  high  rock  rose  from 
the  water's  edge,  effectually  stopping  me.  I  looked  at 
it,  at  the  water  which  ran  by  like  a  mill-race  over  a 
hard,  gravel  bottom,  at  the  sky,  at  my  rod,  at  my  reel 
that  was  spinning  around  swiftly,  and  had  not  five  fath 
oms  left  on  it.  I  had  but  an  instant  to  look  and  think. 
The  next  I  was  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  following 
the  end  of  my  pole. 

At  this  instant  the  reel  stopped.  The  trout  had 
turned,  and  was  coming  up  again.  I  had  but  time  to 
see  that  Joe  was  on  the  bank  some  forty  yards  below, 
and  had  probably  turned  him,  when  I  began  to  wind  in 
as  he  came  up.  I  stood  still,  and  he  shot  by  me,  and 
I  followed  him  back  to  the  starting-place. 

Here  I  let  him  lie  till  Joe  answered  my  call  and  came 
up.  Placing  him  with  a  pole  to  beat  the  stream -below 
the  basin,  I  teased  the  poor  fellow  from  the  bank.  He 
dashed  at  the  outlet,  but  was  scared  back  by  Joe's 
noise,  and  after  a  circuit  two  or  three  times  around  the 
basin,  he  dove  again  into  his  favorite  hole,  nor  could  I 
tease  him  out  for  five  minutes. 

Meantime  we  held  a  council,  to  devise  ways   and 


40  LATER    YEARS. 

means  to  save  my  line  and  the  trout.  Determining, 
however,  that  no  other  than  the  ordinary  course  could 
be  pursued,  I  finally  got  him  out,  and  he  now  darted 
down  stream,  but,  wheeling  suddenly,  took  refuge  un 
der  the  bank  in  a  very  shallow  spot.  Handing  Joe  my 
rod,  I  lay  down  on  the  bank,  and,  putting  my  hand  un 
der  it,  felt  for  him,  and  at  length  found  him.  You  may 
always  take  trout  in  this  way.  He  did  not  move  as  I 
passed  my  hand  along  under  him,  but  dropped  into  it, 
and,  gradually  approaching  his  head,  I  locked  my  thumb 
and  finger  in  his  gills  and  lifted  him  out. 


IV. 


Owl  Creek  Cabin,  May,  18—. 

I  SOMETIMES  fear  that  you  tire  of  my  letters  from 
the  woods  ;  and  on  reflecting  what  they  have  been, 
I  am  compelled  to  acknowledge  that  there  appears  to  be 
very  little  variety  in  them,  however  much  there  may 
be  in  the  life  that  we  lead  here.  I  can  not  make  my 
pen  paint  this  variety.  It  consists  in  trivial  matters. 
The  catching  of  a  larger  fish  than  ordinarily,  the  meet 
ing  with  some  stranger  in  the  forest,  either  a  wander 
ing  citizen  like  myself,  or  a  woodsman  who  has  stray 
ed  from  his  accustomed  places,  or  perhaps  a  passing 
wind  on  the  mountain  side,  or  the  shadow  of  a  cloud 
sweeping  mysteriously  over  the  hills,  or  a  bright  and 
beautiful  mantle  spread  across  the  sky  through  which 
the  sunlight  struggles  and  bursts  triumphantly,  or  a 
new  note  in  the  brook's  voice,  or  the  renewal  of  an  old 
familiar  tone  in  the  wind,  or  letters  from  home,  birds, 
flowers,  stories,  or  books  —  all  these,  and  countless  other 
things,  make  up  the  changing  scenery  and  employments 
of  each  day.  "We  live  from  hour  to  hour,  happily,  care 
lessly,  freely.  You  can  have  little  idea  of  the  sense  of 
freedom  of  which  I  speak  until  you  have  felt  it.  There 
is  only  one  place  where  it  is  stronger,  and  that  is  on  the 


42  LATER    YEARS. 

ocean.  I  stood  the  other  day  on  the  hill  northwest  of 
Stonington,  on  the  old  Post-road  to  New  London,  and 
looked  at  the  sea,  sleeping  in  the  sunshine  before  me. 
Coming  suddenly  on  the  scene  as  I  did,  I  stopped  and 
drew  a  long,  luxurious  breath,  and  looked  around  me. 
That  long  breath  is  the  involuntary  effort  of  the  lungs 
when  one  stands  above  all  the  world,  and  the  air  seems 
fresh,  and  full,  and  boundless.  It  is  an  effort  to  take  as 
much  as  they  can  of  the  rich  supply.  They  are  like  the 
wine-lover  when  the  cask  is  broached.  He  drinks  to 
intoxication  because  there  is  so  much  to  be  drunk. 
Thank  God,  there  is  no  intoxication  in  breathing  his  air. 
Do  you  remember  that  the  Latins  used  the  same  word 
to  express  air  that  they  used  to  express  heaven  ?  I  am 
not  about  to  discuss  the  locality  of  heaven,  but  leave 
you  to  imagine  what  it  is  in  that  synonym  which  has 
always  pleased  me.  I  was  on  the  brow  of  that  hill.  I 
was  there  bodily,  but  away  from  it,  floating  on  that 
golden  atmosphere,  bathing  in  the  mellow  sunshine  of 
the  spring,  moving  unrestrained,  unclogged,  through 
the  space  which  now  seemed  boundless  as  its  Maker ; 
forgetting  utterly  that  I  was  man  and  mortal,  running 
instead  the  race  of  life,  and  that  is  a  race  in  which  all 
carry  weight. 

I  was  soon  after  in  the  city  again,  surrounded  by 
walls  of  brick  and  stone.  I  could  not  breathe  freely. 
There  was  an  oppression  on  my  breast — a  heavy  hand 
that  I  could  not  rid  myself  of;  and  albeit  in  the  for 
mer  instance.  I  had  an  equally  heavy  pressure  of  busi 
ness  and  of  care  on  my  mind,  yet  the  simple  fact  that 


THE    HURRICANE.  43 

nothing  bounded  my  vision,  nothing  limited  my  thoughts, 
instantly  seemed  to  lift  from  me  the  oppression,  which 
became  tenfold  more  intolerable  when  I  reached  the 
city  the  next  morning.  Therefore  am  I  here  ;  and,  so 
long  as  I  remain,  I  shall  not  allow  any  circumstance  to 
weigh  on  me,  but  shall,  as  at  this  moment,  give  free 
rein  to  thought,  and  be  perfectly  and  wholly  at  ease. 

Joe  has  been  some  time  engaged  in  rigging  an  extem 
poraneous  hammock,  but  as  his  best  materials  are  bear 
skins  and  buckskin  thongs,  he  doesn't  seem  to  succeed. 
I  have  suggested  the  idea  of  making  it  a  sort  of  station 
ary  affair,  fastening  each  corner  of  a  large  bearskin  to  a 
sapling,  and  he  is  trying  that  fashion.  After  he  finish 
es  it,  I  shall  claim  the  patent  right,  and  appropriate  it 
to  my  own  uses. 

"We  had  a  hurricane  yesterday,  which  left  the  mount 
ain  side  marked  with  the  forest  ruins.  There  is  a 
path  mowed  across  the  whole  range.  It  came  on  at 
about  noon.  A  dense  black  cloud  lay  on  the  horizon, 
and  came  slowly  up  until  it  reached  the  zenith.  At 
the  instant  that  the  black  thunder  had  veiled  the  sun, 
I  saw  the  trees  on  the  opposite  mountain  ridge  sway 
ing  and  bowing  before  the  blast.  It  was  perfectly  still 
and  calm  where  we  were,  and  not  a  breath  moved  the 
delicate  flower  of  the  mysotis,  which  bloomed  at  my 
feet,  as  I  stood  on  the  river  bank.  A  moan  came  from 
the  storm,  and  I  bowed  my  head  and  listened  to  it.  At 
first  it  was  but  a  low  wail,  followed  by  a  whisper,  as 
if  a  mother  had  heard  her  waking  child's  cry  and  was 
stilling  it.  I  knew  well  that  voice.  It  was  premoni- 


44  LATER    YEARS. 

tory  of  coming  destruction.  Not  like  that  indescribably 
melodious  sound  of  the  wind  on  the  ocean,  but  more 
broken — fierce,  yet  sweet ;  for  the  wind  on  the  ocean  is 
married  to  the  sea,  and  deals  with  it  as  with  a  bride. 
Its  sounds  are  always  full  of  music  until  it  meets  some 
intruder,  and  then,  with  a  shriek  and  cry  of  madness,  it 
bears  away  the  stranger.  But  on  land  the  wind  seems 
hurrying  to  its  bride,  and  angry  at  every  obstruction. 
So  now.  The  trees  swung  to  and  fro  on  the  ridge,  and 
waved  and  tossed  their  arms  in  confused  fright,  until 
at  length  they  were  suddenly  released  from  their  terror 
and  stood  still.  But  the  ensuing  silence  was  fearful. 
I  saw  a  commotion  in  the  centre  of  the  black  cloud ;  I 
heard  a  roar,  indistinct  at  first,  then  loud  as  thunder ; 
and  on  the  top  of  the  ridge,  almost  on  the  highest  peak, 
I  suddenly  saw  a  giant  oak  go  down,  and  a  pathway 
was  opened,  and  a  hundred  trees  lay  by  it  as  the  storm 
came  down  the  hill.  I  was  chained  to  my  place.  I 
could  not  move,  but  gazed.  They  were  swept  away  like 
straws,  those  noble  trees  ;  some  writhed  for  an  instant, 
and  tossed  their  branches  high  up,  and  turned  quite 
around,  as  if  to  face  the  tempest,  and  then  fell  crashing. 
Others  lifted  no  hand,  but  bowed  their  old  heads,  on 
which  the  Spring  was  but  just  shedding  its  blessings, 
and,  Ca3sar-like,  seemed  to  fold  their  mantles  around 
them  as  they  fell.  Some  of  them,  I  thought,  looked  at 
the  wind  with  mournful  look  before  they  fell,  a  sort  of 
"  et  tu  Brute"  look,  for  they  had  fancied  that  the  centu 
ries  had  made  the  wind  their  friend.  You  see  how 
quickly  I  had  personified  them.  I  had  no  thought  of 


THE    HURRICANE.  45 

danger  myself,  but  pitied  the  forest.  In  fact,  the  track 
of  the  hurricane  was  across  the  hill-side,  and  not  to 
ward  me,  so  that  I  was  perfectly  safe  until  the  usual 
general  tempest  which  follows  a  hurricane  should  reach 
me.  When  that  came,  as  it  did  at  length,  I  was  thor 
oughly  drenched  before  I  could  reach  the  cabin,  and  I 
thought  for  half  an  hour  that  the  logs  would  not  hold 
together ;  but  they  stood  it  bravely,  and  the  sun  shone 
out  clearly  at  two  o'clock  on  a  green  and  lovely  scene. 
Only  that  track  of  the  wild  wind  was  desolate.  The 
fine  old  trees  lay  in  confused  masses,  leaving  a  broad 
pathway  open  for  the  next  storm  that  may  come  that 
way.  This  morning  we  crossed  the  river  and  went  up 
to  look  at  the  ruins.  They  presented  a  sad  scene.  The 
forest  is  full  of  such  scenes.  In  many  places  we  come 
across  piles  of  fallen  trees,  all  lying  in  the  same  direc 
tion,  in  a  narrow  line  extending  for  miles,  heaped  on 
one  another,  and  all  giving  unquestionable  evidence 
that  they  met  their  fate  together.  I  have  never  seen 
a  more  thorough  work  of  destruction  than  this  of  yes 
terday  has  been. 

I  went  down  to  the  clearing  at  the  bridge  last  week, 
and  found  that  a  woodman  had  died  of  fever  the  day 
before,  and  they  were  to  bury  him  that  day.  It  was  a 
scene  worth  remembering.  No  clergyman's  voice  was 
heard — there  was  none  to  pray.  My  friend,  Colonel 

,  was  absent,  and  the  companions  of  the  dead  man 

followed  him  home.  One  of  them,  a  rough-visaged 
but  noble  fellow,  read  from  a  Bible,  to  which  book  he 
seemed  somewhat  a  stranger ;  and  by  some  curious 


46  LATER    YEARS. 

fortuity  (I  could  not  believe  that  he  selected  it),  he  read 
the  Psalm  which  commences,  "  The  heavens  declare 
the  glory  of  God."  It  was  full  of  solemn  instruction  to 
the  hardy  men  who  gathered  around  the  open  grave. 

I  lingered,  as  is  my  custom,  after  the  few  had  gone. 
The  grave  was  filled.  The  river  murmured  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill  on  which  the  hunter  slept ;  the  wind  rustled 
among  the  leaves  that  lay  by  the  mound ;  the  sunlight 
fell  peacefully  on  it,  and  the  starlight  will  fall  as  holily. 
I  compared  the  burial  with  one  in  the  city.  I  remem 
bered  the  vault,  the  silver-studded  coffin  handed  down 
the  steps,  and  laid  on  the  tablet,  that  the  dead  may 
rest  with  its  kindred  ;  I  remembered  the  closing  of  the 
iron  door,  the  parting  of  the  assembly,  and  the  solemn 
loneliness  of  the  full  burial  place,  and  I  determined 
that  the  former  was  the  calmer  scene.  I  don't  like  the 
city  vaults.  I  have  a  strange  dislike  to  that  attempt  to 
separate  the  dust  from  its  companion  and  equal  clay. 
I  stood,  a  few  weeks  since,  at  the  Post-office  in  Nassau 
Street,  and  looked  vacantly,  not  thinking  what  I  was 
about,  at  one  of  the  vault-stones  in  the  yard.  I  was 
wondering  who  slept  under  it,  while  the  busy  thousands 
trod  above.  Manhood,  wit,  strength,  virtue — all  that 
was  noble,  all  that  was  excellent,  all  that  was  God-like  ; 
beauty,  matchless  and  pure — the  gift  of  heaven  to  light 
some  earthly  home  a  while,  and,  passing  away  into  the 
distance,  win  its  lover,  by  its  ever-increasing  loveliness, 
to  follow  it  heavenward.  Joys  are  buried  there !  and 
there  are  buried  agonies  under  the  gray  vault-stone. 
Open  the  grave  with  me.  Let  us  go  down  the  damp 
pteps.  Open  the  door.  Here  sleep,  in  silent,  fearful 


THE    HURRICANE.  47 

sleep,  these  dead  companions.  This  little  room  has 
held  them  many  a  year  together,  yet  they  have  ex 
changed  no  word,  no  smile,  no  token  of  affection  or  of 
recognition.  It  is  terrible,  this  making  companions  of 
the  dead!  Read  this  plate.  It  is  dim:  wipe  it  off. 
The  blackness  of  corrosion  rests  now  only  in  the  lines, 
and  you  can  read  it  clearly.  The  sleeper  was  young, 
as  living  men  count  years,  and  died  in  the  flush  of 
manhood.  I  wonder  who  loved  him  ?  What  tears 
sanctified  this  coffin  ere  it  was  brought  here  ?  Strike 
on  the  lid.  He  hears  not,  moves  not,  wakes  not ;  he 
sleeps  profoundly.  Call  him.  Nay,  start  not  so !  It 
was  but  the  ring  of  your  voice  you  heard.  The  dead 
answer  not  in  hollow  tones  like  that.  If  they  speak  at 
all,  it  is  in  the  clear,  silvery  tones  which  memory  makes 
musical.  Throw  back  the  lid.  Sexton,  hold  nearer 
your  lamp  !  Dust !  dust !  And  is  this  all  ?  Has  the 
high  heart  no  record  but  this  ashes  ?  Has  the  strong 
arm  not  left  at  least  one  sinew  ?  Oh,  ye  weary  workers 
in  the  mines  of  life,  who  never  come  to  the  surface  to 
see  God's  sunshine  !  oh,  ye  worn  travelers  in  the  jour 
ney,  who,  in  your  haste,  will  pause  at  none  of  the  inns 
your  guide  so  recommends !  oh,  ye  stout  men,  who 
fight  ever,  finding  or  making  somewhat  to  battle  against 
unceasingly,  before  you  rest  here,  a  gleam  of  sunlight 
will  fall  on  you,  and  you  shall  mourn  that  you  never 
knew  its  holiness  before !  Laugh  at  me,  if  you  will. 
Toil  on,  delve  on,  and  die — die  wearily,  die  alone,  die 
to  be  buried,  epitaphed,  and  forgotten.  I  will  sun  me 
awhile  here,  and  the  same  smile  of  God  shall  bless  the 
turf  that  at  length  shall  cover  me. 


V. 

!'jg*ni  nf  (Dial  (Cmk. 

Owl  Creek  Cabin,  May,  18 — . 

IT  is  a  still  and  glorious  evening.  The  last  sun's 
rays  lingered  lovingly  among  the  branches  of  the 
old  oak  tree,  and  their  kisses  were  very  pleasant,  even 
pleasanter  than  usual,  on  our  foreheads,  as  we  stood 
bare-headed  on  the  river  bank  and  watched  their  reluc 
tant  fading.  The  twilight  came  down  in  mournful 
beauty,  and  one  by  one  the  watchers  took  their  places 
above  us.  The  wind,  which  had  been  somewhat  bois 
terous,  quite  too  much  so  for  fishing,  lulled  into  a  per 
fect  calm,  and  the  mountains  and  the  forest  seemed  to 
repose  serenely  in  the  still  air.  Only  the  river,  brawl 
ing  aloud,  disturbed  the  calm  and  quiet  scene  ;  but  as 
the  night  grew  darker,  the  softness  which  night  always 
brings  to  sounds  of  water  mellowed  its  voice,  and  I 
caught  myself  sleeping  on  the  broad,  flat  rock,  which  is 
my  favorite  seat.  In  truth,  I  have  been  all  day  enjoy 
ing  the  "  dolce  far  nientc"  and  can  assure  you  that  it  is 
verily  a  sweet  pleasure  to  one  wearied  with  long  labor. 
It  is  well,  at  times,  to  let  the  thoughts  have  holiday. 
They  run  riot  like  boys  let  out  of  school,  gathering  flow 
ers  in  sunny  fields,  or  nuts  from  old  trees,  or  lingering 
on  the  banks  of  brook?,  or  babbling  music  to  the  an- 


LEGEND    OF    OWL    CREEK.  49 

swering  ripples  of  the  lake.  Fairy  fancies  wile  and 
win  them.  Butterflies  or  gilded  moths  attract  them  to 
wearisome  chases  over  hills  and  through  valleys,  and 
escape  them  at  the  last.  Then  they  kneel  on  the  mar 
gin  of  some  pure,  cool  spring,  and  drink  rich  draughts 
of  refreshment,  and  leisurely  and  lazily  stroll  home 
ward,  happily  content.  So,  nestling  at  length  in  their 
best-loved  resting-places,  the  pleasant  night  winds  blow 
over  them,  and  they  sleep.  How  very  like  our  thoughts 
are  to  schoolboys!  I  never  thought  of  it  before.  Happy 
he  whose  truant  fancies  have  one  home,  one  voice  of 
love  to  sing  them  to  sweet  slumber ! 

I  have  been  idle  to-day,  because  the  wind  has  been 
too  high  for  comfortable  fishing.  I  did  take  one  good 
fish  for  dinner  out  of  a  deep  basin,  well  protected  by 
hills.  It  was  a  tolerably  well-fed  trout,  who  rose  at  the 
first  cast.  Within  a  few  days  I  have  used  nothing  but 
the  fly.  In  early  and  cold  weather,  I  can  take  three 
trout  with  proper  bait  to  one  with  a  fly.  I  know  that 
an  idea  is  quite  prevalent  that  trout  leap  as  well  in 
April  as  in  August,  but  there  is  a  serious  error  in  the 
idea,  as  my  experience  has  taught  me.  They  will  jump 
in  March  at  some  flies,  but  the  fish  thus  taken  are  gen 
erally  lean,  hungry  fellows,  while  the  fat,  well-fed  ones 
lie  quietly,  taking  whatever  the  Spring  rains  wash  into 
the  creeks.  Trout-fishing,  I  may  as  well  remark  here, 
is  not  the  extremely  skillful  and  difficult  work  which  it 
is  represented  to  be  by  many  self-glorifiers.  A  host  of 
witnesses  rise  against  them  in  the  shape  of  bare-legged 
mountain  boys,  with  crooked  poles,  hempen  lines,  and 


50  LATER    YEARS. 

angle  worms,  who  land  noble  fish  by  the  dozen  pounds, 
while  the  weary  citizen,  with  London  rod  and  silk  tackle, 
throws  his  fly  without  provoking  a  leap.  I  took  a  dozen 
trout  out  of  a  stream  a  few  miles  from  Stonington  the 
other  day,  and  three  of  them  I  took  with  the  same 
identical  bait.  I  did  not  change  it  simply  because  it 
was  the  last  worm  in  my  box,  and  I  was  too  tired  to 
dig  for  more.  A  gentleman,  whom  I  heard  discoursing 
largely  on  trout-fishing  a  few  weeks  ago  in  New  York, 
declared  that  no  trout  would  touch  a  broken  bait.  He 
never  tried  them.  They  are,  on  the  whole,  a  very  stu 
pid  fish,  rushing  headlong  at  any  thing  eatable  which 
shows  itself.  But  if  a  man  shows  himself,  they  in 
stantly  become  suspicious,  and,  when  wide  awake,  are 
extremely  careful  and  difficult  to  deceive.  There  is 
great  skill  in  fly-fishing.  It  is  the  great  angling.  But 
the  mountain-boy  aforesaid  will,  after  all,  beat  the  fly- 
fisher  generally  by  one  half  or  three  fourths.  I  beg 
you,  therefore,  to  preserve  the  distinction  between  trout- 
fishing  and  fly-fishing.  The  one  is  that  in  which  no 
skill,  but  a  little  experience,  makes  one  perfect ;  and 
the  other  is  the  delicate,  elegant  angling,  which  only  a 
quick  eye  and  steady  hand  can  attain  by  thorough  prac 
tice.  The  one  is  a  pleasant  sport  for  a  few  days ;  the, 
other  is  sport  of  which  we  never  tire. 

The  basin  in  which  I  took  the  trout  I  spoke  of  is 
one  of  the  loveliest  nooks  you  can  well  imagine,  and  is 
made  still  more  winning  by  a  legend  which  Willis  has 
connected  with  it.  I  doubt  him  much,  but  he  has  al 
ways  assured  me,  with  a  story-teller's  most  serious  face, 


LEGEND    OF    OWL    CREEK.  51 

and  in  the  approved  style,  that  he  got  it  of  an  Indian 
whom  he  met  a  long  time  ago.  He  has  begged  me  to 
write  out  the  history,  alleging  that  it  needs  much  filling 
out,  which  I  can  better  give  it  than  he.  I  doubt  this, 
for  I  believe  he  has  manufactured  the  whole  of  it,  his 
Indian  historian  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding.  I 
will  give  you  the  outlines  of  it. 

The  basin  is  not  far  from  our  cabin,  and  has  long 
been  a  favorite  resort  for  its  coolness  and  beauty.  The 
stream  falls  into  it  over  a  hill  of  impassable  rocks.  It 
is  a  spot  for  quiet  thinking.  The  golden  sunshine 
hardly  steals  through  the  branches  of  the  old  trees,  al 
ready  leaf-covered,  and  those  rays  which  do  fall  linger 
here  longer  than  elsewhere.  You  can  not  enter  but  by 
a  narrow  path  at  the  outlet.  All  around  is  rocky  wall, 
the  top  of  which  is  loaded  with  dense  masses  of  rhodo- 
dendra,  perfectly  impenetrable.  The  basin  is  nearly 
circular,  and  may  be  twenty  yards  in  breadth,  with  a 
margin  of  a  few  yards  width,  carpeted  with  grass,  and 
rnoss,  and  flowers.  Near  the  fall,  on  the  north  side, 
this  border  widens  and  extends  into  an  angle  of  the 
rock,  which,  being  roofed  over,  allows  a  level  floor, 
measuring  some  fifteen  feet  across,  running  to  a  point 
at  twenty  feet  depth.  We  have  laid  poles  and  branches 
across  this  nook,  and  have  in  former  years  spent  many 
a  warm  night  in  this  cool  retreat. 

It  was  in  a  year  long  since  forgotten  by  the  natives 
of  these  forests,  unmarked  and  unrecorded  save  in  the 
innermost  lines  of  the  oak  tree  of  five  centuries  or  more, 
that  steady,  solemn  recorder  of  the  storms  of  years — it 


52  LATER    YEARS. 

was  in  a  year  which  must  be  nameless,  since  we  know 
nothing  of  it,  that  a  chief  of  the  Wyandots,  wandering 
on  a  far  trail,  came  into  this  beautiful  country.  The 
home  of  his  tribe  was  on  the  southern  bank  of  the  Ohio, 
where  their  thousands  owned  a  royal  land.  I  stood, 
not  long  ago,  on  the  grave  of  their  chieftains.  I  stood 
with  reverence  on  the  great  mound  that  pressed  on  the 
giant  forms  and  stout  hearts  of  the  mighty  dead.  I  had 
entered  other  mounds,  but  I  shrank  from  that.  I,  for 
some  strange  reason  that  I  can  not  explain,  avoided 
penetrating  into  its  silent  secrecy,  and  called  away  my 
workmen  who  were  with  me,  and  turned  their  spades 
into  a  smaller  pile,  in  which  we  found  but  a  few  bones, 
and  an  axe,  and  arrow-heads.  I  know  not  but  that  was 
the  grave  of  the  chief  who  figures  in  this  history.  But 
I  must  return  to  it. 

The  stranger  Indian  looked  with  longing  eyes  on  the 
brown  neck  and  ruddy  cheek,  the  light  form  and  beau 
tiful  foot  of  the  maiden,  the  daughter  of  the  old  chief, 
in  whose  lodge  he  ate  dried  venison  brought  by  her  own 
hands  ;  and  before  he  had  completed  his  first  meal,  with 
the  haughtiness  of  one  accustomed  to  demand,  he  had 
asked  her  in  marriage.  But  she  had  long  been  prom 
ised  to  a  chief  of  her  own  kindred,  and  mayhap  had 
learned  to  love  him. 

"  Ah !"  says  Willis,  leaning  over  me,  and  catching  by 
the  glare  of  that  last  pine  knot  the  flashing  word  that  1 
just  wrote,  "  Love,"  "  ah  !  if  I  could  find  an  Indian  girl, 
with  heart  untaught  in  deceit,  and  eye  that  has  learned 
its  love-light  from  the  calm,  all-containing,  illimitable 


LEGEND    OF    OWL    CREEK.  53 

blue — if  I  could  win  the  love  that  bubbles  up  in  such 
a  glorious  spring,  I  might  yet  be  won  back — "  "  To 
what,  dear  Joe  ?  Ah !  my  companion  and  my  friend, 
you  have  not  to  be  won  back  to  aught.  Your  hair  is 
growing  gray,  Joe,  but  your  heart  gives  no  evidence  of 
age !  I  remember  an  eye  when  we  were  younger,  a 
sunny  eye,  my  tried  old  friend,  that  you  have  not  for 
gotten.  Where  is  its  light  gone,  if  not  into  that  all-ab 
sorbing  brilliance  of  the  blessed  land  ?" 

I  forget  my  legend  in  these  episodes.  She  and  her 
father  alike  refused  the  Wyandot,  and  he  returned  to 
his  tribe  in  wrath.  He  came  again,  and  it  was  with  a 
thousand  warriors  at  his  back,  to  take  his  bride.  One 
of  those  long  and  bloody  wars  ensued,  in  which  the  In 
dian  tribes  of  our  country  so  often  engaged.  It  lasted 
through  the  winter  and  the  spring,  and  as  the  summer 
sun  grew  warmer,  the  stranger  had  made  his  home  in 
the  lodge  of  the  old  chieftain.  But  his  bride  was  not 
yet  won.  In  faith,  it's  easier,  as  many  men  have  found, 
to  conquer  nations  than  to  win  an  unwilling  bride. 
Somewhere  in  the  forest  lingered  yet  a  hardy  band, 
guarding  with  zealous  trust  the  maiden  daughter  of 
their  slaughtered  chief.  In  vain  the  invaders  searched, 
in  vain  sought  trails  of  their  enemies.  The  latter  never 
left  their  fastness  but  for  food,  and  then  concealed  their 
trail  with  a  skill  which  was  matchless.  In  the  basin 
which  I  have  described  were  gathered  thirty  warriors, 
and  the  few  female  attendants  of  the  maiden,  guarding 
her  retreat.  The  ground  in  the  angle  of  the  rock  was 
covered  with  rich  panther  and  wolfskins,  and  the  little 


54  LATER    YEARS. 

nook  was  roofed  with  the  same  material,  and  the  whole 
so  covered  with  brush  as  to  defy  detection.  Trees  lay 
across  the  outlet  of  the  basin,  whose  dense  leaves  wholly 
concealed  it,  and  the  only  egress  and  entrance  was  by 
swimming  through  a  narrow  opening.  From  this  open 
ing  every  night  more  or  less  of  the  guard  issued,  swam 
out  into  the  stream,  down  the  creek  into  the  river,  and 
up  or  down  the  river  half  a  mile  before  they  touched 
the  land,  thus  defying  all  skill  to  find  a  trail  to  their 
concealment. 

A  Wyandot,  sitting  one  night  on  the  bank  of  the 
river,  saw  something  in  the  water  which  did  not  look 
like  any  animal  he  had  before  seen.  He  watched  it 
closely  as  it  turned  into  the  creek,  and  followed  stealth 
ily  till  he  saw  a  man's  hand  grasp  the  limb  of  a  tree 
that  lay  across  the  water.  The  next  night,  as  the  first 
man  issued  from  the  retreat,  a  hatchet,  hurled  with 
unerring  force,  entered  his  brain,  and,  with  a  yell  that 
woke  the  whippoorwill  that  slept  on  the  dead  oak  over 
him,  he  sprang  from  the  water,  fell  back,  and  his  body 
floated  down  the  bloody  stream.  An  instant  after,  a 
dark  object  entered  at  the  same  opening  from  which 
the  slain  man  had  issued.  The  chief  of  the  few  stout 
guardsmen  saw  the  red  feathers  in  the  tuft  of  the  "Wy 
andot,  and  waited  till  he  reached  an  eddy  in  the  cur 
rent,  then  struck  a  swift  blow,  and,  springing  into  the 
water,  grasped  his  scalp-lock,  and  drew  his  stone  knife 
around  the  skull.  It  is  marvelous  what  a  passion  In 
dians  have  always  had  for  those  scalp-locks  !  Another, 
and  another,  and  another  followed  their  leader  into  the 


LEGEND    OP    OWL    CREEK.  55 

basin,  and  followed  him  also  to  his  fate.  The  yells  of 
the  combatants  rang  hideously  in  the  forest ;  but  the 
cry  of  the  attacked  far  surpassed  the  cries  of  the  in 
vaders,  and  the  latter  shrank  from  the  fierceness  of  the 
wolf  at  bay  in  his  den. 

But  the  sequel  was  fearful.  No  mode  of  attack 
availed,  and  the  Wyandots  sat  down  to  besiege  and 
starve  out  the  gallant  little  band.  One  by  one  they 
yielded  to  the  grirn  death  that  was  now  inevitable. 
Their  mournful  death-songs  were  heard  day  and  night 
in  the  dim  forest  arches,  and  one  by  one  their  giant 
bodies  went  floating  down  the  stream.  They  met  death 
bravely  in  those  brave  old  days ! 

At  length  the  maiden  and  her  betrothed  remained 
with  but  ten  warriors,  gaunt  and  famine-stricken,  yet 
lion-like  in  their  hunger.  Then  they  devised  a  plan 
of  escape.  The  girl  was  a  bold  swimmer,  as  are  all 
Indian  girls,  and  was  accustomed  to  being  long  under 
water.  It  was  supposed  that  the  besiegers  would  not 
trouble  themselves  to  regard  the  dead  body  of  a  warrior 
floating  by  ;  so,  while  the  ten  old  warriors  chanted  a 
death-song,  the  young  chief  lay  on  the  water,  and  the 
girl,  grasping  his  hand  with  one  of  hers,  swam  under 
him  as  his  body  floated  out  at  the  opening,  and  down 
into  the  river.  A  "Wyandot,  with  a  low  grunt  of  con 
tempt,  threw  a  stone,  which  struck  his  breast ;  but  he 
was  firm,  and  so  those  faithful  two  floated  away  in  the 
solemn  night,  and  fled  to  a  lodge  among  their  distant 
kindred.  One  by  one  the  remaining  warriors  adopted 
a  similar  plan ;  and  when  the  silence  of  the  hold  was 


56 


LATER    YEARS. 


so  profound  that  the  watchers  concluded  death  had 
done  its  work,  they  entered,  and,  finding  no  bodies  on 
the  ground,  knew  at  once  the  cheat,  and  their  yells  of 
rage  and  disappointment  again  scared  the  birds  that 
were  hatching  their  second  brood  in  the  branch  of  the 
oak  above  the  fall. 

Will  that  answer,  Joe,  dear  ? 


VI. 

lv  j  t  mi   1 1  j  B  p. 

Owl  Creek  Cabin,  June,  18 — . 

4  £  "IT  ET  me  sleep,  let  me  sleep,  Philip,"  said  Willis, 
-L/  as  I  tried  to  wake  him  this  afternoon,  after  he 
had  been  hard  at  work  sleeping  two  hours.  I  did  not 
exactly  like  the  idea  of  his  unsociable  employment,  and 
so  offered  to  rouse  him,  at  the  same  time  proposing  a 
walk  up  the  creek,  and  a  trout  or  two,  by  way  of  prov 
ender  for  supper ;  but  his  reply  was  somniferous,  in 
tone  as  well  as  words  ;  so  I  sat  down,  and  began  to 
think  what  might  be  understood  by  his  request,  "  Let 
me  sleep." 

It  was  uttered  mournfully  once  by  a  nobleman  await 
ing  his  execution  for  treason.  He  would  fain  have  for 
gotten  the  doom  that  awaited  him,  and  perhaps  dream 
that  he  was  free  and  young  again. 

Most  mournfully  did  the  last  words  of  the  dying  poet 
embody  the  idea.  I  can  imagine  no  more  touching  ex 
clamation  than  that  which  closed  the  utterance  of  Lord 
Byron,  as,  turning  restlessly  on  his  pillow,  he  murmur 
ed,  "  I  must  sleep  now."  There  is  something  eminently 
beautiful  in  the  comparison  of  death  with  sleep.  The 
hush  of  profound  repose  lingers  on  the  lip  in  one  as  in 
the  other,  and  both  are  alike  the  cessation  of  toil.  Did 
C2 


58  LATER    YEARS. 

you  ever  look  on  a  friend  sleeping,  at  a  distance  suffi 
cient  to  render  the  breathing  inaudible,  and  the  slight 
motion  of  the  nostril  imperceptible  ?  If  you  have,  you 
can  not  but  have  noticed  how  perfectly  the  likeness  to 
death  is  exhibited.  The  rigidity  of  the  limbs  is  per 
haps  even  greater  in  sleep  ;  for  death  seldom  leaves  a 
limb  distorted,  or  in  any  position  but  that  of  natural 
slumber. 

(Joe  is  apt  to  sleep  sometimes  with  his  lips  apart, 
and  the  result  is  a  very  unpleasant  expression  efface, 
which,  if  it  were  not  so  comical,  would  be  positively 
alarming.) 

I  strolled  slowly  out  of  the  cabin  to  the  bank  of  the 
creek,  entered  the  canoe,  and  paddled  into  the  river, 
and  then  up  stream  a  mile  or  more,  thinking  of  these 
matters,  and  walking  and  paddling  rather  mechanically 
than  with  any  idea  of  what  I  was  doing.  I  am  given 
to  just  such  turns  of  absence  of  mind,  and  often  wake 
up  astonished  at  the  position  in  which  I  find  myself.  I 
had  been  led  from  one  thought  to  another,  until  I  found 
myself  in  communion  with  the  far  past,  my  early  boy 
hood.  I  remembered  one  who  slept  the  deep  sleep  so 
calmly,  so  holily,  that  death  and  sleep,  in  her  case,  could 
not  be  separated :  we  knew  not  when  one  ceased  and 
the  other  began  to  reign. 

It  was  on  this  wise.  Pardon  me  if  this  memory 
prove  a  wearisome  one.  I  have  fancied  that  my  letters 
were  (by  this  time)  read  by  at  least  a  few  who  are 
willing  to  follow  me  through  memories  as  well  as  events, 
and  who  have  learned  that  I  do  not  write  after  the  ap- 


"  LET    ME    SLEEP."  59 

proved  style  of  correspondence,  but  that  I  write-freely 
from  my  heart.  The  true  secret  of  good  letter-writing 
consists  in  making  yourself  the  friend  of  your  corre 
spondent,  in  admitting  him  to  your  confidence,  and 
avoiding  any  appearance  of  writing  for  effect.  The 
compositors  will  bear  me  witness  (to  their  cost)  that  I 
am  neither  a  slow  nor  a  studied  writer.  I  drive  through 
a  letter  at  rail-road  speed,  and  fold  and  direct  it  with 
out  re-reading  or  correcting.  I  give  my  readers  (who 
are  my  correspondents)  my  unschooled  fancies,  hopes, 
memories,  exactly  as  they  tumble  over  one  another  into 
my  brain,  or  out  of  it ;  and  if  any  are  dissatisfied  either 
with  my  matter  or  my  manner,  thinking  my  subjects 
more  fit  for  private  converse  than  public  letters,  I  have 
only  to  say  to  such  that  I  write  to  the  hearts  of  a  few 
which  I  know  answer  my  own  (one  heart  how  faith 
fully!),  and  that  those  who  do  not  like  the  letters  are 
not  asked  to  regard  themselves  as  my  correspondents, 
i  And  now  for  my  memory  this  afternoon— a  memory 
of  long  ago,  of  the  brave  old  days,  the  buried  days  of 
boyhood  !  Buried,  but  not  forgotten.  Sepulchred  and 
epitaphed.  "  Green  be  the  turf  above  them."  Many 
fair  flowers  bloom  on  the  graves  of  those  days,  and 
cheer  me  with  their  delicate  beauty  ;  and  when  I  am 
forced  to  crush  them,  they  reproach  me  with  their 
balmy  odors.  God  forbid  that  those  flowers  should 
cease  to,  bloom  QI\  the  graves  of  my  boyhood  and  youth! 
I  knew  a  fairy  child,  when  I  too  was  a  child,  whose 
fifteenth  winter  found  her  matchlessly  beautiful.  She 
was  as  gentle  as  a  memory,  as  lovely  as  a  dream,  as 


60  LATER    YEARS. 

winning  as  a  hope !  Golden  tresses  floated  gayly  around 
a  calm,  broad  forehead,  and  when  the  sunlight  lingered 
among  them  (it  loved  to  linger  there),  she  seemed  a 
very  angel.  Her  lip  was  as  delicately  chiseled  as  ever 
lip  that  drank  nectar  on  Olympus.  Nay,  it  was  a 
sweeter  lip  than  those  that  of  old  wooed  and  won  the 
sons  of  God  to  taste  their  ruby  wine  !  But  the  melody 
that  was  always  flowing  from  that  lip  may  not  be  told 
of  now.  There  be  hearts  grown  old,  and  ears  dulled 
by  the  thunders  of  life,  which  have  thrilled  with  that 
melody,  and  which,  in  the  still  hours  of  communion 
with  the  past,  even  yet  thrill  with  the  saintly  tones 
that  float  along  the  stream  of  years !  There  be  eyes 
weary  with  the  sunshine  and  the  clouds  of  long  life, 
that  grow  dimmer  even  now  with  tears,  when  that 
voice  comes  so  lovingly  from  out  the  gloomy  past.  Oh, 
sainted  idol  of  our  home  and  hearts  !  When  shall  the 
sword  that  guards  our  home  be  sheathed,  and  weary, 
wayward,  world-worn  Adam  return  to  Eden,  and  our 
hearts  to  thee  ?  Death  is  the  flaming  sword  that  guards 
the  gate  of  Paradise  !  When  shall  they  die  who  mourn 
so  long  for  thee  ? 

She  was  very  beautiful,  and  we  loved  her  as  the 
beautiful  are  always  loved ;  and  her  pure  and  gentle 
soul  bound  us  yet  closer  to  her  than  that  pre-eminent 
beauty. 

William  B was  a  boy,  my  junior  by  a  year  or  two, 

who  loved  her,  and  with  boyish  heart  wooed  and  won 
her  love.  It  was  in  my  own  old  home  on  the  river  that 
all  this  occurred,  of  which  I  now  write  the  history.  Per- 


61 

haps  the  memory  of  our  close  attachment  makes  the 
memory  of  Kate's  beauty  brighter.  But  others  live  who 
think  as  I,  that  she  was  of  the  fairest  of  the  children  of 
earth. 

But  I  weary  you  with  writing  of  her  beauty,  while  I 
neglect  the  story  of  her  sleeping ;  for  sleep  she  did,  at 
length,  profoundly.  I  never  saw  a  fairer  vision  under 
coffin-lid.  A  smile  lingered  like  a  Savior's  kiss  upon 
her  matchless  lip,  and  her  brow  was  calm  as  a  thought 
of  heaven !  It  was  impossible  to  believe  that  death 
was  in  that  angel  form.  But  I  am  now  as  much  too 
fast  as  I  was  before  too  slow. 

It  was  a  moony  night  in  June — just  such  a  night  as 
this  in  which  I  write,  but  somewhat  later  in  the  month. 
We  sat  together  on  the  old  piazza,  looking  at  the  noble 
river  rolling  within  a  rifle  shot  of  our  seats.  There 
were  others  there,  and  the  round  moon  seemed  a  fa 
miliar  companion  of  the  merry  group  gathered  in  the 
old  house.  Do  you  remember  it,  Joe  ?  Do  you  remem 
ber  that  evening,  S ?  You,  dear  L ?  Ah !  you 

remember  it,  I  know  well. 

The  children,  Kate  and  Will,  were  allowed  to  sit 
alone,  apart,  and  looking  on  the  water  and  the  moon 
weave  fabrics  of  the  moonbeans  to  clothe  their  hopes 
with.  They  faded  sooner  than  the  moonbeams  faded ! 
There  was  a  strange  languor  in  Kate's  large  blue  eye, 
and  a  hesitation  in  her  tone,  which  at  length  caused 
me  to  ask  if  she  was  well.  "  Perfectly,"  was  her  reply, 
"  except  a  slight  headache  ;  but  my  spirits  are  dull 
enough.  I  have  the  blues,  I  believe." 


62  LATER    YEARS. 

"  I'm  sorry  for  you,"  said  I,  and  I  did  verily  pity  her. 
She  was  a  lonely  child  ;  a  waif,  homeless,  because  her 
home  was  sorrowful,  motherless,  and  having  a  father 
who  was  a  heartless,  cold,  stern  man. 

At  length  the  elder  part  of  the  family  left  the  piazza, 
and  with  the  usual  directions  to  take  care  of  their 
health,  Kate  and  Will  were  left  sitting  alone  on  the 
steps.  The  moon  was  rising  higher,  and  Kate  looked 
up  into  the  sky,  and  spoke  no  word  for  a  long  time,  un 
til  Will  saw  that  she  was  weeping. 

"  Kate,  dear  Kate,  what  is  the  matter,"  said  he,  with 
a  boy's  freedom,  flinging  his  arms  around  her  neck. 
"  I  don't  know — I  don't  know.  There's  something  so 
sad  in  that  blue  sky,  I  couldn't  help  it,"  said  she,  as  her 
head  fell  on  his  arm,  and  she  wept  bitterly.  With  a 
child's  eagerness,  he  sought  to  find  the  cause  of  that 
deep  grief,  and,  if  he  could,  remove  it.  Little  did  he 
then  know  of  the  strange  sympathies  of  the  soul.  Little 
did  he  dream  that  she  he  so  loved  was  listening,  though 
she  knew  it  not  herself,  to  the  voices  of  the  dear  ones 
away  in  the  sky,  calling  her  to  join  them,  and  weeping 
so  ungovernably  because  she  was  to  leave  the  sunny 
scenes  of  time. 

They  talked  of  death  as  children  talk,  and  she  said 
she  had  always  feared  it,  but  of  late  had  thought  it 
might  after  all  be  pleasant  to  rest  in  the  earth,  if  she 
might  know  that  dairies  would  be  planted  at  her  head, 
and  "  forget-me-not"  at  her  feet.  So  touching  were  the 
words  she  spoke  in  that  low  voice,  that  Will  at  length 
wept  too,  and  then,  with  a  gay  laugh,  a  carol  of  wild 


"  LET   ME   SLEEP."  63 

merriment,  she  proposed  to  serenade  the  family,  and  so 
her  bird-like  voice  warbled  a  melody  that  I  have  heard 
wandering  among  the  stars  every  clear  night  from  that 
to  this.  Then  they  spoke  a  little  while  of  plans  for  the 
morrow,  and  then,  with  arms  around  each  other,  walked 
up  and  down  the  long  piazza,  and  then,  with  a  long  kiss, 
parted  for  the  night.  Half  an  hour  later  he  heard  her 
voice  at  his  door.  He  was  not  yet  undressed,  and,  open 
ing  it,  saw  her  wrapped  in  a  light  dressing-gown.  She 
asked  him  to  come  to  the  parlor,  and  sit  with  her,  and 
talk  or  read  to  her.  Her  head  ached  wildly,  and  she 
could  not  sleep.  He  gladly  accompanied  her.  She  lay 
on  a  lounge.  He  brought  her  a  pillow  for  her  head, 
and  laid  his  own  on  it  by  hers,  with  his  cheek  pressed 
against  her  dear  cheek.  He  has  often  told  me  of  that 
evening  and  night.  He  calmed  her  with  boyish  prattle, 
and  a  hundred  times  they  promised  faithful  love,  seal 
ing  their  promises  with  kisses.  The  moon  stole  round 
the  corner  of  the  old  house  till  it  peered  into  the  win 
dow  in  whose  recess  she  lay,  and  a  silver  beam  fell  on 
her  white  forehead.  She  turned  her  head,  and  pressed 
her  lips  to  his,  and  gently  wound  her  arm  around  his 
neck,  and,  nestling  her  warm  cheek  closer  against  his, 
said,  most  melodiously,  "  I  shall  sleep  quietly  now ;  don't 
leave  me,  Will ;"  and  so  she  slept ;  and  when  the  dead 
arise,  our  Kate  will  wake  again,  but  not  till  then. 

For  seven  days  she  slept  thus  heavily.  Her  cheek 
grew  paler  daily,  and  her  breath  more  feeble,  and  her 
holy  heart  beat  less  and  less  heavily.  I  know  not  when 
she  slept  the  deeper  sleep.  I  sat  by  her  side,  but  saw 


C4  LATER    YEARS. 

no  change.  I  could  not  for  four  hours  detect  her  breath 
ing,  yet  a  glass  indicated  its  existence ;  nor  did  we  know, 
till  long  after  she  had  passed  away,  that  our  gentle  one 
had  joined  the  Seraphim.  I  bowed  my  lips  to  her  fore 
head,  but  it  was  cold,  and  its  icy  coldness  chilled  me. 
I  raised  her  hand,  and  it  fell  back  motionless.  I  press 
ed  my  hand  on  her  breast,  but  it  was  hushed.  The 
slumber  of  our  idol  was  as  deep  as  it  was  beautiful,  and 
so  we  buried  her. 

Four  years  ago  I  walked  on  the  shore  of  the  river 

with  my  old  friend  B .  There  is  no  sanctuary  on 

earth  so  sacred  as  the  temple  of  a  crushed  heart.  Such 
was  his.  He  died  that  fall.  I  doubt  not  she  was  wait 
ing  for  him  within  the  gate  of  heaven  ?  I  doubt  not 
when  the  flaming  sword  flashed  between  him  and  us 
in  the  sunny  Eden  of  our  dreams,  her  arms  were  wound 
around  his  neck,  and  her  dear  lips  mingled  her  words  of 
love  with  kisses. 

I  remember  his  hopes  expressed  to  me  in  a  moment 
of  passionate  grief  as  we  walked  together.  I  had  re 
minded  him  of  the  beauty  of  her  last  words,  "  I  shall 
sleep  quietly  now.  Don't  leave  me,  "Will !" 

"  I  will  not  leave  you,  darling,"  said  he,  with  a  burst 
of  agony  ;  "  I  will  not  leave  you,  darling,  for  you  have 
not  left  me  !  You  have  been  faithful  in  these  lonesome 
years.  They  measure  not  time  where  you  are,  Kate, 
but  they  know  how  mournfully  we  measure  it,  and  your 
kiss  has  never,  never  failed  me  in  the  evening  of  each 
day.  The  evening  of  my  day  is  coming,  Kate.  My 
head  must  find  its  last  white  pillow,  and  then,  then,  I 


"LET    ME    SLEEP."  65 

know,  your  cheek  will  be  against  mine,  and  in  the  close 
embrace  of  love  we  shall  sleep  quietly,  dear  Kate !" 

My  story  is  told.  I  have  almost  been  weeping  over 
the  memory,  but  I  have  failed  to  make  it  as  touching 
to  you  as  it  is  to  us. 


VII. 

9  t'ttt  *  1 1 1L 

New  York,  July,  18—. 

THE  last  day  on  the  river  was  a  pleasant  and  a  sor 
rowful  one,  as  the  last  day  always  proves.  Pleas 
ant,  because  we  devote  ourselves  usually  to  one  long 
day's  sport,  and  sorrowful,  "because  we  look  on  the  trees 
and  water,  the  hills,  and  the  sky,  and  the  clouds,  as  on 
pleasant  friends  with  whom  we  must  perforce  part,  and 
no  one  knows  for  how  long  a  time. 

Very  fortunately  for  a  plan  we  had  concocted,  the 
rains  had  been  heavy  for  a  week  before  we  left ;  and 
although  the  creek  had  subsided  almost  to  its  usual 
condition,  the  river  remained  high,  and  we  constructed 
a  raft  of  small  dimensions,  but  sufficiently  large  to  carry 
ourselves  and  a  small  weight  offish.  We  had  arranged 

with  P to  meet  us  with  his  horses  at  the  clearing 

ten  miles  below,  and  to  have  with  him  a  sufficiency  of 
ice  to  preserve  some  trout  until  we  might  reach  civil 
ization. 

At  daybreak,  therefore,  on  the  morning  of  the  last 
day,  we  were  up  and  out,  over  the  hills,  to  the  three- 
mile  basin,  intending  to  whip  the  water  down  toward 
the  cabin. 

It  was  a  glorious  morning,  I  assure  you — a  morning 


HOMEWARD.  67 

when  one  could  not  choose  but  love  the  mountain  land, 
so  calmly  did  it  bid  the  night  good-by,  and  meet  the 
morning's  kiss — blushingly,  but  joyously.  The  air  was 
cool  and  delicious.  You  could  fancy  it  playing  over 
the  hill-tops,  and  eddying  around  in  the  valleys,  and 
gathering  a  wealth  of  odors  from  the  opening  flowers, 
and  bearing  its  store  of  perfumes  to  other  and  less  fa 
vored  places.  I  fancied,  dear ,  that  you  were  that 

morning  in  the  saddle  on  your  noble  gray  (your  brave 
horse  bears  his  gentle  mistress  nobly  always,  as  if  con 
scious  of  a  pride  in  his  burden),  and  that  on  the  brow 
of  the  hill  (I  will  watch  the  sunrise  with  you  from 
that  hill  before  another  month  is  passed)  you  paused, 
and  caught  the  western  breeze,  and  waved  your  cap 
gayly  in  the  air,  and  shouted  as  your  locks  flew  out  on 
the  wind,  and  that  you  wished  my  presence  (egotisti 
cal,  am  I  ?) ;  and,  fancying  thus,  I  touched  my  fingers  to 
my  lips,  and  held  them  up  high,  that  the  wind  might 
bear  to  you  the  evidence  of  my  thought  of  you. 

Joe  was  in  precisely  such  a  mood  as  I,  and  both  of 
us  were  ready  to  see  our  friends,  albeit  not  at  all  anx 
ious  to  return  to  the  city.  I  suppose  a  compromise 
which  would  have  brought  them  out  to  our  cabin 
would  have  satisfied  him.  I  know  it  would  have  con 
tented  me.  But  we  must  needs  be  moving.  It  was 
fifteen  minutes  after  five  when  my  fly  first  touched  the 
water,  and  it  lacked  but  ten  minutes  of  six  when  I  land 
ed  the  fish  that  took  it.  This  delay  was  caused  by  a 
provoking  dive  he  made  under  a  root,  and  a  general 
twisting  and  tangling  of  my  line,  which  it  took  me  half 


68  LATER    YEARS. 

an  hour  to  rectify ;  meanwhile,  the  fish  making  vain 
attempts  to  release  himself.  Joe  took  half  a  dozen  fine 
fellows  during  this  interval,  and  he  had  apparently 
emptied  the  basin  of  all  it  contained.  We  then  walk 
ed  down  the  stream,  making  an  occasional  cast  in  such 
a  way  as  to  leave  no  square  yard  of  water  untried,  and 
yet  lifted  not  a  fin.  It  was  nearly  or  quite  ten  o'clock 
when  we  reached  the  Punch  Bowl,  and  I  had  only  taken 
my  first  fish. 

I  was  somewhat  in  advance  of  Joe,  and  threw  my  fly 
over  a  still,  deep  spot,  just  above  the  fall  of  the  stream. 
The  fly  was  now  the  common  red  heckle,  carefully 
dressed,  and  my  hook  was  covered  with  a  piece  of  a 
small  worm,  which  made  not  a  bad  body.  A  fish  rose, 
but  missed  the  hook,  and  I  could  not  coax  him  out.  I 
tried  again,  and  again,  and  again,  but  in  vain.  Every 
fly  in  my  book  was  used,  even  to  a  large  salmon  fly 
which  I  found  stowed  away  in  one  corner.  But  I  could 
not  raise  a  trout.  I  determined  to  manufacture  a  fly, 
and  sat  down  to  it.  My  book  contained  a  supply  of 
material,  and  I  very  leisurely  constructed  one  of  the 
queerest  looking  objects  a  trout  ever  looked  up  at.  It 
was  a  bright  crimson  silk  body,  with  brown  wings  and 
grayish  legs,  a  swallow  tail  of  lead  color,  and  a  head 
of  black.  Joe  came  up  and  looked  over  my  shoulder 
as  I  finished  it,  and  laughed  heartily  at  my  idea. 

But  the  trout  took  it  ;  the  wherefore  I  leave  for 
others  to  explain.  It  only  concerned  me  that  a  good 
two  pounds  of  fish  was  on  the  end  of  my  line  at  the 
instant  the  fly  fell  on  the  ripple,  and  the  next  instant 


HOMEWARD.  69 

trout  and  line  went  over  the  fall  into  the  lower  basin. 
You  ma'Jr  remember,  from  my  former  description  of  this 
basin,  that  it  is  impossible  to  reach  it  from  above.  My 
anxiety  was  to  follow  my  fish  ;  but  I  could  not,  except 
by  a  long  circuit,  and  must,  of  course,  let  go  my  rod. 
An  instant's  thought  determined  me.  I  saw  a  large 
piece  of  dry  bark  at  my  feet,  and,  seizing  it,  I  tangled 
it  in  the  line,  so  as  to  float  my  rod,  which  would  other 
wise  sink,  and  gave  rod  and  line  to  the  water.  As  the 
rod  shot  over  the  fall,  I  dove  into  the  underbrush,  and 
came  out,  within  three  minutes,  below  the  basin,  which 
I  entered,  and  saw  my  bark  and  rod  floating  in  an  eddy. 
I  swam  in  for  it,  and,  landing,  found  my  fish  still  fast, 
and  soon  succeeded  in  killing  him. 

We  had  now  already  ten  pounds  of  fish,  and  our 
anxiety  was  to  keep  it  till  evening.  We  accordingly 
constructed  a  sort  of  cachet  of  stones,  under  a  part  of 
the  sheet  of  the  fall,  and  deposited  them,  and  brought 
to  this  place  all  which  we  took  during  the  day.  We 
continued  to  fish  with  more  or  less  success  until  about 
three  o'clock,  when  we  returned  to  dinner.  The  next 
three  hours  were  passed  in  preparations  for  departure, 
and  at  six  we  were  ready  to  bid  the  forest  good-by. 

At  this  time  Black  decided  to  accompany  us  to  the 
clearing.  He  had  promised  to  sell  his  long  canoe  to  a 
settler  at  the  bridge,  and  determined  to  go  down  with 
it  now,  and  conclude  the  sale.  Our  raft  was  therefore 
voted  a  decided  waste  of  labor,  and  we  made  ready  the 
trout,  and,  with  paddles  in  hand,  pushed  out  from  the 
creek  into  the  river.  The  sun  was  setting  behind  the 


70  LATER    YEARS. 

west  mountain  as  we  lost  sight  of  the  cabin,  and  the 
stars  cheered  us  as  we  passed  slowly  down  the  stream. 
Occasionally  a  night-bird's  scream,  or  a  strange  sound 
in  the  forest,  overcame  for  an  instant  the  monotonous 
melody  of  our  paddles,  and  once  in  a  while  Joe's  voice 
gave  utterance  to  some  carol  of  merriment  or  a  plaint 
ive  song.  Now  we  dashed  swiftly  through  the  narrow 
pass  where  the  roar  of  the  water  quite  drowned  our 
voices,  and  anon  we  floated  out  into  the  starlight  on  a 
calm,  lake-like  sheet,  where  the  sky  was  as  clear  below 
as  above,  and  again  the  dash  of  the  paddle  was  musical. 
Under  the  high  precipice  of  the  Cedar  Knoll  we  floated 
close  up  to  the  rock,  and  there  was  a  strangely  melan 
choly  echo  to  Willis's  voice  as  he  concluded  a  mournful 
but  beautiful  song  : 

"  Two  locks,  and  they  are  wondrous  fair, 

Left  me  that  vision  mild, 
The  brown  is  from  the  mother's  hair, 

The  blonde  is  from  the  child. 
And  when  I  see  that  lock  of  gold, 

Pale  grows  the  evening's  red, 
But  when  the  dark  lock  I  behold, 

I  wish  that  I  were  dead  !" 

With  an  occasional  delay  of  five  or  ten  minutes  at 
the  cabins  of  hunters,  to  say  good-by,  we  reached  the 

clearing  at  about  ten  o'clock,  and  found  P waiting 

for  us.  The  horses  were  in  harness,  and  our  fish,  within 
five  minutes,  securely  packed  in  ice,  and  in  the  light 
spring  box.  We  exchanged  a  hearty  shake  of  the  hand 
with  Black,  promised  him  the  usual  monthly  letter  of 
news  from  New  York,  and,  springing  into  the  wagon, 
dashed  swiftly  away  for  the  east. 


VIII. 

51  $  U  a  0  a  B  t  Bag. 

Stonington,  July,  18 — . 

I  AM  sitting  by  the  window,  looking  eastward  at  the 
silver  path  which  reaches  from  directly  under  the 
window  to  the  moon,  now  quite  above  the  horizon.  It 
is  nearly  midnight,  and  after  enjoying  two  hours  of  un 
alloyed  pleasure,  which  was  preceded  by  a  stroll  through 
the  village,  and  a  lounge  on  the  end  of  the  breakwater, 
listening  to  the  music  of  voices  and  waves,  I  have 
seized  pen  and  paper  to  give  you  a  share  of  my  pleas 
ure.  If  I  could  by  any  means  convey  to  you,  who  are 
wearying  in  the  city,  some  idea  of  the  delicious  cool 
ness  of  this  ocean  air,  and  the  intense  beauty  of  this 
deep  sky,  I  have  no  doubt  you  would  resign  business 
without  delay,  and  I  should  have  the  pleasure  of  wel 
coming  you  to  Stonington.  Let  me  sketch  the  amuse 
ment  of  a  single  day,  and  see  if  I  can  not  tempt  you  to 
try  the  Sound  for  a  night,  and  Stonington  for  a  week. 
This  air  comes  gloriously  in  at  the  window.  Rath 
er  cool,  too — even  to  chilliness,  at  times  ;  but  a  long 
breath  is  a  luxury,  and  I  am  making  amends  for  the  last 
few  days  in  New  York.  If  I  can  long  enough  keep  my 
self  at  this  paper,  and  away  from  the  temptation  of  the 
pleasantest  of  all  company,  and  the  most  beautiful  of 


72  LATER    YEARS. 

all  views,  and  the  most  melodious  of  all  sounds,  that 
faint,  far  sound  of  the  surf,  I  will  write  you  at  least  an 
apology  for  not  writing  a  letter.  For  how  can  I  find 
time  among  these  scenes  to  write  ?  Take  yesterday, 
for  example.  Waking  to  a  sense  of  happy  existence,  a 
pure  air,  and  no  restraint  of  business  or  engagement,  I 
found  110  difficulty  in  securing  capital  company  for  a 
sail  in  the  bay.  "We  trolled  for  blue-fish  a  couple  of 
hours,  and  then  went  over  to  Watch  Hill.  Long  be 
fore  we  reached  the  land,  we  heard  the  thunder  of  the 
Atlantic  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  beach,  and,  mount 
ing  the  hill,  threw  ourselves  down  to  look  at  the  great 
sea.  How  sublimely  it  lay  in  the  sunshine !  Broad, 
calm,  solemnly  grand — a  sleeping  monarch — terrible  in 
its  repose,  yet  pre-eminently  beautiful.  I  need  not,  to 
you,  recount  my  love  for  the  ocean.  You  know  that  it 
is  in  my  soul,  and  that  I  can,  not  seldom,  catch  the 
surf-roar  in  my  longing  ears,  even  at  my  cabin,  hund 
reds  of  miles  away  from  the  sea.  But  now,  it  has  been 
so  very  long  since  I  stood  on  the  shore  or  rocked  on  the 
waves,  that  I  come  back  as  a  schoolboy  comes  to  his 
home — rather,  I  should  say,  as  the  schoolboy  to  his 
school,  returning  after  vacation  —  only  I  return  right 
joyously  to  this  my  school.  I  heard  the  voice  of  roy 
teacher  lovingly  yesterday,  and  coming  nearer,  and  near 
er,  and  nearer,  to  catch  more  distinctly  the  tones  of  her 
voice,  I  could  no  longer  resist  the  impulse  of  my  love, 
hut  rushed  with  a  shout  of  joy  into  her  white,  gleam 
ing,  and  outstretched  arms.  You  should  have  seen 
how  tenderly  she  held  me  to  her  breast,  how  gently 


A   PLEASANT    DAY.  73 

sang  to  me,  how  solemnly  renewed  her  holy  teachings, 
and  how  humbly  yet  joyously  I  lay  on  that  heaving 
breast,  and  heard  the  voices  of  truth  and  o'f  affection. 
Truth  !  hath  not  the  sea  grown  old  enough  to  know  and 
deal  in  truth  ?  Can  these  hoar  locks  be  other  than  the 
locks  of  wise  old  age  ? 

I  have  stood,  day  after  day,  gazing  at  the  great  falls, 
but  Niagara  never  conveyed  to  my  mind  a  sense  of  the 
sublime.  It  is  only  in  this  boundless  sea,  across  which 
no  eye  but  the  eye  of  God  can  look,  no  hand  but  the 
hand  which  holds  the  stars  can  stretch,  no  voice  but 
His  voice  who  speaks  in  the  surf-thunder  can  prevail — 
it  is  only  in  this  solemn  waste  of  waters  that  I  behold 
the  Infinite  reflected.  The  thunder-cloud  seemed  al 
ways  a  messenger  from  the  Eternal,  and  its  voice  the 
voice  of  a  destroying  angel ;  but  the  sea  seemed  always 
to  me  as  if  the  Spirit  still  moved  above  its  surface,  and 
the  sound  of  the  breaking  surge,  as  it  began  dimly  far 
up  the  beach,  and  rolled  heavily  down  to  my  feet,  and 
died  away  far  along  the  shore,  like  the  voice  of  God 
speaking  in  tones  intelligible  to  the  ear  of  a  mortal. 
Niagara  is  finite,  having  a  beginning  and  an  ending. 
The  ocean  is  infinite,  without  beginning  .or  ending,  and 
continents  are  but  islands  around  which  it  moans. 

We  stood  together  on  the  hill,  and  looked  eastward. 
Block  Island  lay  dimly  on  the  horizon ;  Montauk,  in  the 
south,  loomed  high,  and  the  light-house  looked  as  lonely 
as  ever.  I  imagined  a  pleasant  party  there,  which  T 
would  gladly  have  joined  had  circumstances  allowed  it. 

The  noon  passed,  and  we  shot  gayly  out  into  the  bay 
D 


74  LATER    YEARS. 

with  our  little  craft,  and  so  homeward.  In  the  after 
noon,  H suggested  the  idea  of  going  a  "  crabbing" 

"  Capital,"  said  I ;  and  we  went.  Imagine  a  man  of 
about  my  size,  with  pantaloons  rolled  up  as  far  as  pan 
taloon  legs  admit  of  being  rolled  up,  wading  deliberate 
ly  along  shore,  on  the  pebbly  bottom,  making  desperate 
thrusts  at  crabs  with  a  small  landing-net.  They  came 
out  from  the  eel-grass  to  sun  themselves,  I  suppose, 
and,  at  the  approach  of  a  stranger,  you  would  be  aston 
ished  to  see  the  velocity  with  which  they  move,  side 
ways  and  backward,  and  around,  and  around,  and  every 
way  but  forward.  A  cautious  approach  is  necessary, 
and  a  very  slow  advance  of  the  net  until  it  is  near  one  ; 
then  you  thrust  it  under  him,  and  land  him  in  a  basket. 
We  took  a  hundred  or  so  in  two  hours,  and  pulled  slowly 
homeward  in  the  evening. 

The  next  operation  of  the  day  was  to  throw  off  fish 
ing  toggery,  and  make  one's  self  presentable  in  society  ; 
after  which,  we  strolled  down  to  the  dep8t,  and  waited 
the  arrival  of  the  Boston  train.  The  news  being  exam 
ined,  and  a  few  words  exchanged  with  friends  passing 
through  to  New  York,  we  resumed  our  walk  ;  but  meet 
ing  a  pleasant  party  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  somewhere 
in  the  neighborhood  of  half  past  nine  o'clock,  it  occur 
red  to  me  that  we  might  as  well  run  down  the  bay,  and 
see  the  moon  rise  from  the  ocean.  My  proposition  met 
with  ready  approval,  and  it  required  but  the  addition 
of  sbawh  1o  the  ladies'  accoutrements  to  complete  our 
preparations.  In  a  few  moments  we  were  gliding 
quietly  by  the  head  of  the  breakwater,  and  as  we  pass- 


A   PLEASANT    DAY.  75 

ed  the  end  of  the  point,  the  moon  came  calmly  into  the 
sky. 

That,  after  all,  was  the  pleasantest  hour  of  the  day. 
I  felt  little  inclined  to  speak,  for  a  long  schooling  in  the 
world  has  taught  me  wholly  to  suppress  these  emotions 
which  many  regard  as  affectations,  and  more  look  on  as 
follies  ;  but,  baring  my  forehead  to  the  cool  night  wind, 
I  gazed  at  the  stars,  and  the  dark  surface  of  the  water, 
and  the  slow  ascending  moon,  and  felt  within  me,  stir 
red  gloriously,  the  pride  of  an  immortal.  I  knew  that 
for  my  eye  God  made  the  ocean  and  the  moon  ;  I  knew 
that  for  my  ear  the  melody  of  the  waves  was  attuned. 

Then  some  one  spoke  of  being  buried  in  the  sea,  and 
for  an  instant  1  forgot  my  rule,  and  spoke  of  how  diffi 
cult  I  had  always  found  it  to  imagine  the  poetry  of 
flowers  by  a  grave,  when  six  feet  of  damp  earth  were 
between  the  sleeper  and  the  violets,  and  was  going  on 
to  speak  of  the  poetry  of  an  ocean  burial,  which  I,  who 
have  no  thought  of  the  disposition  of  these  weary  limbs 
when  I  shall  have  done  with  them,  have  still  oftentimes 
imagined  to  be  the  only  grave  that  could  win  me  with 
any  especial  poetry.  Yet  none  seemed  to  agree  with 
me  —  none,  at  least,  who  spoke:  some  were  silent. 
Mayhap  the  thought  of  death  at  all  to  the  young  and 
the  gay-hearted  came  sadly  in  that  moonlight ;  mayhap 
they,  younger  than  I,  had  learned  more  of  the  same  sad 
lessons  which  I  have  learned,  or  mayhap  they  looked 
with  me  to  the  fair  land  beyond  the  blue  above.  It 
was  holy  company,  that  of  the  silent  stars,  and  the  mur 
muring  sea,  and  the  gentle  and  the  beautiful,  yet  very 


76  LATER    YEARS. 

startling  to  hear  those  glad-toned  voices  so  seriously 
discussing  the  poetry  of  the  grave.  In  the  very  midst 
of  what  I  was  saying,  I  paused,  and,  as  the  thought  of 
the  deep  sleep  that  must  one  day  dim  those  star-lit  eyes 
came  mournfully  over  me,  with  memories  of  tears  wept 
over  graves,  and  vigils  kept  over  the  memories  of  the 
young,  the  loved,  the  lost,  and  white  hands  folded 
meekly  across  unheaving  breasts,  and  lips  that  once 
gave  life  with  kisses,  closed  in  the  calm  but  maddening 
beauty  of  serene  repose,  I  bowed  my  head,  and  watch 
ed  the  rushing  water.  Then  came  the  earnest,  health 
ful  teaching  of  the  ocean  to  me.  I  heard  her  voice, 
clear  and  distinct.  Some  ripples  break  in  their  first 
murmuring,  and  some  grow  to  be  waves  with  crests  of 
foam ;  but  the  ripple  breaks  with  a  song  of  joy  on  the 
rocks,  while  the  billow,  weary  with  long  wandering, 
and  laden  with  sea-weed,  and  drift-wood,  the  wrecks  of 
the  ships  it  has  borne  at  sea,  falls,  heavily  moaning,  on 
the  shore.  The  moonbeams  linger  joyfully  among  the 
golden  tresses  of  youth,  but  silver  with  the  whiteness 
of  desolation  the  foam  of  the  breaking  surge.  So  I  felt 
that  it  mattered  little,  after  all,  how  soon  deep  sleep 
overpowers  us,  so  we  are  only  ready  to  sleep  well. 

It  was  wearing  on  toward  the  small  hours  when  we 
bore  up  for  home.  Saw  you  ever  a  day  more  pleasant 
ly  employed  ? 

I  am  called  from  my  paper  to  listen  to  the  waves  on 
the  Point ;  I  can  not  resist  longer.  It  would  not  b<i 
surprising  if  I  were  tempted  out  on  the  water  again 
to-night,  late  as  it  is. 


IX. 


Saratoga,  August,  18  —  . 

IT  was  a  golden  evening  as  we  left  New  York,  a 
pleasant  company  of  six,  composed  of  much  the 
same  persons  who  were  with  us  last  summer  on  this 
same  route.  Willis  was  in  an  uncommonly  good  hu 
mor  (I  mean  by  that  that  his  humor  is  always  good, 
but  now  was  extraordinarily  so),  and  as  he  sat  by  our 
kind  friend  and  companion,  Mrs.  -  ,  you  would  have 
set  him  down  for  a  man  ten  years  younger  at  the  least. 
The  rest  of  the  company  (for  various  reasons  nameless) 
were  of  the  choicest  of  our  friends. 

At  length  we  saw  as  calm  a  sunset  as  ever  hallowed 
mountain  peak,  and  the  gray  twilight  came  quietly  over 
us,  bathing  the  world  in  the  waves  of  its  sombre  light. 
It  now  grew  chilly.  We  were  entering  the  Highlands 
when  it  became  quite  dark,  and,  transferring  our  seats 
to  the  promenade-deck,  we  wrapped  shawls  around  the 
ladies,  and  an  hour  slipped  along  unmarked  and  unno 
ticed.  At  length  we  yielded  to  the  influence  of  the 
scenery  around  us,  for  Joe  and  I  were  among  familiar 
mountains,  and  passing  many  scenes  that  are  sacred  in 
our  memories.  As  by  a  wizard's  wand,  the  past  swept 
majestically  by  us,  with  all  its  treasures  of  love  and 


78  LATER    YEARS. 

hope,  of  beauty  and  of  joy.  Each  mountain  peak  was 
dimly  surrounded  with  a  phantom  host,  and  every  val 
ley  teemed  with  young-eyed  visions.  We  lived  over 
again  the  silvery  moonlight  nights  of  boyhood ;  we 
climbed  again  the  mountain  crag ;  we  breasted  again 
the  river's  mimic  waves.  They  were  heavy  billows  to 
us  in  boyhood,  as  were  the  waves  of  life  too  ;  it  was 
difficult  to  surmount  them.  But,  since  then,  our  arms 
have  battled  countless  times  with  the  ocean  surf,  and 
our  souls  have  outlived  many  storm-tossed  surges  of 
life. 

"  Philip,"  said  a  melodious  voice  at  my  side,  after  I 
had  been  some  time  silent,  "  Philip,  I'm  in  a  melancho 
ly  mood  of  a  sudden;  come  and  sit  away  from  the 
crowd,  and  tell  me  a  story,  such  a  one  as  you  told  me 
at  Saratoga  last  summer,  on  the  lake  ;  not  such  as  you 

told  the  other  day  at  ;  more  sad  than  that.  I 

want  a  sad  story." 

"  With  pleasure,  my  dear .  But  why  are  you 

sad  to-night  ?  There  is  nothing  in  this  glorious  mount 
ain  land  that  is  tear-moving,  as  in  the  surf-roar  or  the 
forest  wind.  Why  sad  to-night  ?" 

"I  know  not  exactly  why.  You  know  there  is  a 
strange  connection  between  the  beautiful  and  the  sad. 
Tears  often  express  the  extremest  emotion  of  pleasure. 
But  you  seem  sad  too.  Why  sad  to-night  ?  Come,  I'll 
question  you,  as  you  do  me.  You  had  not  spoken  for 
ten  minutes  when  I  called  you  here,  and  you  did  not 
laugh  at  Mr.  Willis's  last  story,  capital  as  it  was." 

"I  had  heard  it  before,  perhaps." 


THE    HUDSON.  79 

"  No,  you  never  heard  it,  before  nor  then.  Your  eyes 
were  on  the  mountains  yonder,  and  your  thoughts  in 
the  grave  of  the  years,  I  am  sure  —  were  they  not? 
Tell  me.  Confitere,  Confitere,  mi  —  what  shall  I  call 
you?  Prater?" 

"Call  me  disciple.     I  learn  all  gentleness  of  you." 

"  Hush !  hush !  no  badinage  to-night.  "We  lose  the 
glory  of  the  night  by  wasting  it  in  mockeries.  Come, 
tell  me  a  story.  Speak  very  low,  and  I  will  dream  my 
self  into  the  scenes  you  tell  me  of." 

"  Be  it  so,  then.  You  see  that  peak  yonder  against 
the  sky,  calmly  looking  up  to  God  in  tho  starlight?" 

"  I  see  it,"  said  the  low  voice. 

"Look  fixedly  at  its  base.  Peer  into  the  darkness. 
You  will  see  a  grave-yard  there." 

"  I  see  it.  The  stars  glitter  on  every  stone,  and  sanc 
tify  the  moss  with  holy  radiance." 

"  And  one  grave  in  that  yard — under  the  elm-tree  in 
the  upper  corner?" 

"  I  see — I  see ;  green  turf  covers  it,  and  the  night 
wind  rustles  among  the  leaves,  prematurely  withered 
and  fallen  in  summer  time." 

"  Look  now  at  my  forehead.  This  deep  line  was  the 
first  one  drawn  on  it,  and  that  was  on  the  day  yonder 
grave  was  filled." 

"  Go  on — go  on — I  listen ;"  and  a  white  cheek  fell  on  a 
tiny  hand,  and  two  blue  eyes  looked  up  into  mine  with 
earnest  attentiveness ;  and  I,  not  daring  to  fix  my  gaze 
where  I  would  willingly  have  fixed  it,  on  those  speaking 
eyes,  looked  at  the  shore,  and  strove  to  modulate  a  voice 


80  LATER    TEARS. 

more  accustomed  to  the  cry  of  the  chase,  or  to  shout  in 
the  surf,  than  to  the  low  tones  best  fitted  for  such  a 
'  historic.' 

"  In  the  days  of  lang  syne,  I  had  a  friend  who  lived 
up  yonder  on  the  hill  side.  A  score  of  years  makes 
marvelous  changes  in  us  !  He  was  a  boy  of  keen  in 
tellect,  and  surpassed  us  all  at  school.  There  was 
something  very  noble  about  him,  which  won  him  re 
spect  every  where.  But  the  most  marked  feature  of 
his  character  was  an  ungovernable  ambition.  '  I  must 
be  a  great  man,  May,'  he  would  say  to  his  beautiful 
sister,  a  year  older  than  he  ;  '  I  must  be  great.  I  can't 
live  my  whole  life  here.  I  must  and  will  make  people 
know  me.  How  grand  it  must  be  to  be  known  all  over 
the  world.'  As  he  grew  older,  these  aspirations  devel 
oped  themselves  in  intense  application  to  study  ;  yet  he 
was  a  good  companion,  and  a  leader  in  all  our  mount 
ain  expeditions  and  every  sort  of  adventure.  His  sis 
ter  was  a  sweet  child,  who  divided  his  worship  with 
his  ambition.  She  seemed  to  be  the  only  earthly  ob 
ject,  after  his  parents'  death,  which  he  could  not  sacri 
fice  to  his  unceasing  thirst. 

"  Forever  thus  !  "With  us  as  with  him.  We  waste 
the  spring-time  of  our  years,  our  very  life-blood,  in 
searches  after — what  ?  Bubbles,  that  break  when  we 
grasp  them  ;  phantoms,  that  continually  elude  us,  or 
whose  passionate  kisses  we  loathe  and  abhor  when  we 
embrace  them.  We  live  for  glorious  cheats !  for  school 
boy  dreams,  that  we  forget  not  till  we  die. 

"  That  sister  and  brother  formed  a  union  which  had 


THE    HUDSON.  81 

in  it  a  moral  beauty  and  sublimity,  that  did  not  fail  to 
impress  me,  young  as  I  was,  with  a  force  I  can  hardly 
describe.  I  have  from  that  day  to  this  regarded  a 
brother's  love  for  a  sister  as  the  purest  and  holiest  of 
earthly  bonds.  Her  mild  eye  might  well  win  love  from 
him,  as  it  did  from  me — from  all. 

"  The  hour  of  desolation  came  to  them,  as  it  comes  to 
all  men.  It  came  with  clouds  and  storms  ;  but  as  the 
night  gathered,  a  rift  in  the  clouds  let  through  the  gold 
en  sun-light.  Harry  was  strong,  but  he  grew  weak, 
and  his  clear,  glad  eye  dimmed  sadly — then  grew  wild 
and  bright  with  fever,  and  he  murmured  in  mad  dreams 
the  hopes  of  a  lifetime.  The  fever-storm  swept  by, 
and  left  a  still,  dark  evening  on  his  soul,  but  he  waited 
his  end  in  peace.  Yet  once  in  a  while  he  pressed  his 
lips  together,  and  muttered,  'This  is  hard  —  hard  — 
hard.' 

"  One  day  he  lay  in  silence  so  long  that  they  fancied 
he  was  sleeping.  Sleep  came  not  yet.  At  length,  as 
the  day  wore  on,  and  the  sunshine,  streaming  across  the 
room,  fell  on  the  grate  fire,  dimming  the  coals  so  that 
they  seemed  a  heap  of  ashes,  he  fixed  his  eye  on  them, 
and  suddenly  exclaimed  (I  could  guess  easily  the  train 
of  ideas  from  that  fire  to  his  sudden  exclamation),  'May, 
May,  I  shall  be  great  yet !'  'I  hope  so,  Harry,'  she  said, 
sobbing,  for  she  knew  he  was  dying.  '  No,  no,  not 
here,  not  here,  May,'  he  said  ;  '  I'm  a  boy  now,  but  I'm 
going  to  sleep  now,  and  I'll  wake  a  man !  Don't  you 
understand  me,  May  ?  I'll  be  tallest  among  the  angels ! 
Think  of  that !  "What  matter  how  great  I  am  here  ? 
D2 


82  LATER    YEARS. 

What's  a  great  man  on  earth  to  a  great  angel  in  Heav 
en?  Call  them  in,  May.  I'm  in  haste  to  be  away 
now.  I  never  thought  of  this  before.' 

"  '  What !  in  haste  to  leave  us,  Harry  I9 

" '  No,  no — not  that,  not  that.  You'll  all  come  there 
directly.  How  glad  you'll  be  to  see  me  high  in  heaven ! 
Think  of  it,  May!' 

"  So  they  were  all  called  in,  and  heard  his  voice  in 
the  last  tones  of  ambitious  mortality.  He  said  that 
earth  was  as  nothing  compared  with  that  fair  land,  and 
speaking  thus  occasionally  for  an  hour  or  more,  he  sud 
denly  grasped  May's  hand  in  his  left  hand,  and,  raising 
the  other,  waved  it  above  his  head,  and  we  could  fancy 
we  heard  the  glad  shout  of  his  enfranchised  soul  as  it 
sprang  forth  from  the  clay.  Yes,  we  heard  it !  It  was 
faint,  far  off,  like  the  sound  of  a  voice  falling  from  a 
mountain  top  to  the  valley  below — a  clear,  distinct,  pro 
longed  shout,  the  lo  Triumphe  of  heaven !  So  sleep 
came  at  length.  And,  if  there  be  any  progress  in  heav 
en,  I  doubt  not  Harry  has  surpassed  all  others  in  the 
grand  aim  of  knowledge,  *  to  know  Him  whom  to  know 
is  eternity's  work.'  " 

"And  May?" 

"  She,  gentle  as  the  memory  she  cherished,  grew  up 
a  lovely  girl,  and  was  married  years  ago.  She  is  the 
wife  of  a  distinguished  lawyer  ;  none  other,  in  fact,  than 
the  lady  whose  carriage  set  you  down  at  the  boat  this 


evening." 


The  same." 


THE    HUDSON.  83 

"  Thanks  for  the  story.  It  chimes  well  with  my 
mood.  What  is  Mr.  Willis  looking  about  the  deck 
after  ?" 

"  After  you,  I  imagine.  I  overheard  your  very  ex 
cellent  father  expressing  some  degree  of  anxiety  about 
you  just  now.  Here  comes  Joe." 

"  Found  at  last !  I've  looked  under  twenty-five  bon 
nets  to  find  this  pretty  face,  and  here  it  is." 

"  Mr.  Willis,  you're  in  a  queer  humor.  You  never 
thought  my  face  pretty  before." 

"  Philip  has  been  telling  you  some  fish  story  to  light 
en  it  up  ;  you've  no  idea  how  cheerful  and  pleasant  it 
looks." 

"  Joe,  if  you  don't  stop  your  nonsense,  I'll  lay  hands 
on  you." 

"  Then  I'm  off.  Miss ,  your  father  desired  to 

know  where  you  were,  and  I'll  report  you  in  safe  keep 
ing." 

So  the  evening  passed,  and  it  was  long  after  midnight 
before  we  went  to  our  rooms. 


X. 


Cape  May,  August,  18  —  . 

£  £  T    ET  go  the  mainsail  ;  keep  her  up,  Ben  —  steady 
I  ^  so  —  we'll  take  a  couple  of  reefs,  and  that  bon 
net  out  of  the  jib.     If  I'm  not  mistaken,  it'll  blow  a  stiff 
one  before  night." 

"  Where  might  we  be,  captain  ?"  said  the  doctor,  hold 
ing  on  by  the  lee-rail,  as  the  words  were  jerked  out  of 
his  mouth  by  the  uneasy  tossing  of  the  Phantom. 

"  "We  might  be  inside  of  that  beach  yonder,  doctor,  and 
very  comfortable  at  that  too  ;  but  we  happen  to  be  out 
side  of  it  ;  and  that  beach  is  known,  I  believe,  as  the 
Island  Beach  ;  so  called,  I  suppose,  from  the  fact  that 
it  is  the  only  one,  of  a  dozen,  between  Sandy  Hook  and 
Cape  May,  that's  connected  with  the  main  land.  But 
bear  a  hand  here,  doctor,  and  when  we've  reefed  we'll 
take  an  observation.  I  should  prefer  somewhat  to  be 
in  Barnegat  Bay.  This  wind's  hauling  off  to  the  south 
ward,  and  we'll  have  a  rough  night  of  it." 

Joe,  and  the  doctor,  and  myself  had  gotten  the  Phan 
tom  into  trim  for  a  short  cruise,  and  determined  to  go  to 
Cape  May  first.  It  was  a  glorious  morning  when  we 
stood  down  the  bay,  but  the  wind  had  been  easterly  for 
several  days,  and  it  was  with  some  apprehension  of  a 


CAPE    MAY.  85 

storm  that  we  passed  the  Hook,  and  hugged  the  New 
Jersey  shore  until  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  "We 
thought  we  had  made  capitally  good  time ;  "but  the 
breeze,  which  had  hitherto  been  very  fresh,  was  now 
growing  into  a  small  gale,  and  we  took  the  necessary 
precautions  for  a  rough  night.  I  was  half  inclined  to 
make  for  the  next  inlet,  but  concluded,  on  the  whole, 
that  we  would  weather  it. 

Night  carne  on  us  as  we  made  Long  Beach,  and  the 
wind  was  now  somewhat  alarming. 

You  should  have  seen  the  Phantom  staggering  into 
that  sea,  breaking  through  the  huge  waves  that  threat 
ened  to  send  the  tiny  craft  to  the  bottom,  laughingly 
dancing  over  one,  as  merrily  plowing  through  another, 
shaking  herself  as  she  came  up  like  a  duck,  and  settling 
on  the  surface  for  another  bout  with  the  monsters.  It 
was  a  grand  sight.  I  was  lashed  to  the  mainmast,  and 
the  spray  went  flying  over  my  head,  and  blinded  my 
eyes,  and  soaked  me,  body  and  clothes,  with  cool  salt 
water,  but  it  was  great  sport.  Joe  looked  at  me  for 
some  time  rather  anxiously.  In  fact,  he  was  afraid  that, 
in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  I  would  be  overboard, 
as  he  had  once  seen  me.  That  was  in  a  moonshiny 
night,  off  Montauk,  years  ago.  I  stood  looking  into  tho 
blue  eyes  of  the  waves,  and  at  length,  as  a  white  gleam 
ing  arm  seemed  to  be  reached  out  to  me,  I  sprang  over 
to  the  embrace  so  lovingly  offered  me.  Joe  was  then 
at  the  wheel,  and  the  Phantom  came  about  in  an  in 
stant,  and  he  was  in  the  water  by  my  side,  offering  me 
an  arm,  as  if  he  fancied  I  had  intended  to  commit  sui- 


86  LATER    YEARS. 

cide,  but  took  it  for  granted  I  was  now  in.  my  senses. 
I  laughed  at  him,  threw  water  in  his  face,  and,  seizing 
the  low  gunwale  of  the  boat  as  she  went  by,  lifted  my 
self  in,  and  offered  a  hand  to  help  him.  That  was  a 
delicious  bath,  and  it  was  making  free  with  the  waves 
in  a  way  that  I  liked.  No  danger  of  my  trying  that 
now  though,  when  the  Phantom  was  driving  wildly  be 
fore  a  northeaster,  and  the  waves  were  in  their  maddest 
humor.  I  confess  it  was  hard  to  recognize  my  gentle 
teacher  in  this  stormy  ocean.  Yet  at  times  I  heard 
the  same  dear  voice  blending  with  the  wind,  and  the 
mournful  wail  of  the  wind  as  it  answered.  Sometimes 
I  fancied  the  storm  would  yield,  and  the  sea  have  a 
calm  night's  rest.  But  by  midnight  it  was  cloudy,  and 
the  gale  was  steadily  increasing.  It  hauled  into  the 
south  rather  more  at  this  time,  and  we  shipped  more 
water.  I  sent  Joe  and  the  doctor  below  to  sleep  at 
about  eleven  o'clock,  and  they  did  sleep,  with  apparent 
ly  little  difficulty,  for  I  did  not  see  them  again  until  four 
in  the  morning. 

Meantime  I  got  aft  to  the  wheel,  and,  with  Ben  and 
Smith  on  deck,  managed  to  keep  her  pretty  well  into 
the  wind,  and  at  the  same  time  make  no  slow  progress. 
You  can  imagine  the  grandeur  of  that  night.  The  sea 
was  in  wild  commotion,  and  the  waves  tossed  us  hither 
and  thither  with  no  reverence  whatever.  Besides  all 
this,  to  confess  the  truth,  although  I  dared  not  intimate 
it  to  the  men  or  my  companions,  I  did  not  half  like  some 
of  the  new  rigging  of  the  Phantom,  and  was  afraid 
every  moment  that  some  of  those  strained  ropes  would 


CAPE    MAY.  87 

part,  and  we  go  ashore  on  Absecom.  I  was,  on  the 
whole,  not  a  little  glad  to  find  the  wind  going  down  to 
ward  daybreak,  and,  just  as  the  first  streak  of  dawn  was 
among  the  clouds  to  seaward,  I  put  her  away  for  the 
Henlopen  lights,  which  began  to  show  above  the  hor 
izon.  At  seven  o'clock  we  made  Cape  Island,  and  ran 
down  to  it  by  nine. 

We  landed  in  our  boat.  I  enjoyed  a  laugh  at  a  boat 
load  from  a  yacht  lying  off  near  us.  They  were  evi 
dently  fresh  hands  at  surf-riding,  and  allowed  their  boat 
to  fall  into  the  trough  of  the  waves  too  near  the  shore. 
In  an  instant  she  broached  to,  and  was  turned  upside 
down,  spilling  her  contents  into  the  foam  of  the  breaker, 
and  all — men,  oars,  coats,  boxes,  &c. — went  in  a  con 
fused  mass  up  the  beach. 

We  landed  without  difficulty,  and  the  doctor  bade  us 
an  affectionate  good-by.  He  has  gone  off  on  a  cruise 
in  the  Phantom,  and  is  to  return  and  pick  us  up  in  about 
a  week. 

Take  a  seat  with  me  by  this  window.  Do  you  see 
that  light  spot  in  the  southeastern  horizon  ?  The  last 
ray  of  the  sun  is  leaving  it  now.  It  is  the  white  sail 
of  the  Phantom,  bound  for  the  Chesapeake. 

Imagine  me,  then,  most  comfortably  installed  at  the 
Atlantic ;  and,  take  my  word  for  it,  this  is  the  best  of 
all  watering-places.  The  whole  arrangement  of  every 
thing  is  most  capital.  You  can't  help  being  comforta 
ble,  and  enjoying  yourself.  Saratoga  is  stupid,  New 
port  frigid,  Cape  May  delicious.  Look  out  yonder  at 
that  surf.  Is  it  not  glorious?  See  those  swimmers. 


88  LATER    YEARS. 

Will  you  believe  that  that  lady,  whom  you  saw,  but  an 
hour  ago,  shaking  gayly  her  luxuriant  curls  from  her 
face,  and  listening  to  mawkish  sentimentality  in  the 
drawing-room  (Joe  said  then  that  he  saw  a  sneer  of 
contempt  in  her  joyous  eye),  is  the  same  bold  swimmer 
that  is  dashing  away  the  foam-caps  of  the  waves  outside 
the  surf?  Come  and  go  down  with  me,  and  I'll  intro 
duce  you  to  her.  "  What !  out  there !"  did  you  exclaim  ? 
Certainly,  out  there.  I  introduced  Joe  to  her  this  morn 
ing  in  the  same  place.  He  was  remarking  on  the  fine 
picking  for  sharks  out  of  fifteen  hundred  bathers  then 
in  the  surf,  and,  seeing  one  lady  and  gentleman  outside 
of  all  the  others,  I  proposed  to  him  to  swim  out,  and  be 
ready  to  aid  her  in  case  of  accident.  No  sooner  said 
than  done.  I  had  no  fear  of  sharks,  for  I  never  heard 
of  one  attacking  any  one  on  our  shores ;  nor  do  I  be 
lieve  the  blue  shark  will  touch  a  man,  so  long  as  he 
can  get  fish  to  eat ;  but  I  always  fear  for  a  lady  who  is 
far  from  shore,  lest  her  strength  should  fail  her.  It  re 
quires  a  very  great  degree  of  coolness  to  swim  in  a 
heavy  sea.  Imagine  my  surprise,  on  swimming  past  the 
lady  and  gentleman  I  have  mentioned,  at  finding  that 

it  was  none  other  than  my  friend,  Mr. ,  and  his 

daughter,  Miss  ,  with  whom  I  have  swum  many 

an  hour  in  rougher  water  than  that ;  a  lady  perhaps 
unequaled  as  a  swimmer  in  this  country  (and,  while  I'm 
about  it,  I  may  as  well  add  that  you  are  the  greatest 

horsewoman  too,  my  dear ). 

"Hurra!"  exclaimed  a  clear,  ringing  voice  ;  "hurra! 
Who  would  have  thought  of  meeting  you  here  !     I've 


CAPE    MAY.  89 

met  you,  I  believe,  at  every  place  imaginable,  from  Ni 
agara  to  the  American  Museum  ;  but  the  idea  of  meet 
ing  you  outside  the  surf  at  Cape  May  is  unexampled ! 
Father,  father,  here's  Philip  !" 

"  Where  ?"  said  Mr. ,  puffing,  and  for  the  first 

time  aware  of  my  presence.  "  I'm  glad  to  see  you, 
Phil.  I'd  give  you  a  hand,  if  I  had  one  to  spare." 

"Here's  one  for  both  of  us,  then!"  said  the  lady,  a 
much  more  expert  swimmer  than  her  father,  at  the 
same  time  reclining  gracefully  on  one  side,  and  offering 
me  her  left  hand  as  she  swam  with  her  right.  I  took 
this  opportunity  to  introduce  Joe,  and  it  was  done  in 
the  most  approved  style  of  drawing-room  introductions. 

"  My  dear  Miss ,  allow  me  to  present  to  your  kind 

notice"  (here,  a  foam-cap  broke  in  my  face,  and  I  paused 
an  instant)  "  my  friend  and  ally,  Mr.  Willis,  of  whom 
you  have  heard  me  speak."  "  It  gives  me  great  pleas 
ure  to  meet  Mr.  Willis,  whom  I  have  long  known  by 

most  excellent  reputation."  "  Miss  will  please 

suppose  me  to  make  a  graceful  bow,"  said  Joe,  most 
comically,  with  his  mouth  just  above  the  edge  of  the 
water :  "  the  nearest  approximation  to  one  which  I  can 
devise  under  the  circumstances  is  a  dive  ;  but  I  fear 
that  would  be  rather  ludicrous  than  otherwise." 

We  laughed  heartily  at  Joe's  apology,  and  swam 
shoreward. 

The  day  passes  delightfully  here.  None  of  your  dull, 
stupid,  unemployed  hours,  such  as  you  have  at  Sara 
toga.  After  breakfast,  a  large  number  of  the  ladies 
attend  prayers  in  the  chapel,  and  (rather  a  sudden 


LATER    YEARS. 

change)  proceed  from  the  prayers  to  the  pistol-galleries 
and  the  billiard-rooms.  And  there  are  not  a  few  good 
shots  among  these  same  fair  ladies,  and  as  many  good 
hands  at  a  cue.  At  eleven  o'clock  all  hands  go  down 
to  the  water.  Imagine  five  hundred  or  a  thousand 
bathers  together  at  a  time,  and  you  have  a  brilliant 
scene,  worth  going  a  little  way  to  see.  You  will  hardly 
recognize  the  same  faces  yonder  and  in  the  drawing- 
room,  or  at  the  Kursaal.  Lunch  follows  the  bath  ;  then 
driving,  dinner,  lounging,  and  an  evening  of  pure  mer 
riment.  This  ocean  air  is  glorious  ! 


XI. 

3U 


New  York,  September,  18  —  . 

THE  evening  before  I  left  Cape  May,  I  met  a  face  at 
the  Kursaal  on  which  I  looked  an  hour  or  more 
with  an  interest  I  could  not  explain  to  myself.  It  was 
the  face  of  a  lovely  woman  ;  yet  the  beauty  which  was 
so  attractive  was  mingled  with  a  strange  expression  of 
discontent,  or  moroseness,  which  gave  a  singular  air  to 
her  appearance.  There  was  something,  too,  in  that 
face  which  was  familiar  to  me  ;  and  once,  as  I  caught 
the  sound  of  her  voice,  I  felt  that  thrill  of  emotion 
which  a  remembered  strain  of  music  produces  when 
one  is  wandering  in  far  lands.  I  started  forward  as  I 
heard  the  tone  which  so  affected  me,  and  spoke  hur 
riedly  to  my  companion,  Mrs.  -  ,  asking  if  she  knew 
the  lady.  My  own  voice  was  rather  louder  than  it 
should  have  been  ;  and,  as  I  turned  toward  her  again, 
I  caught  her  full  black  eye  directed  with  a  searching 
gaze  on  my  face.  A  dozen  times  afterward  I  met  that 
gaze,  and  as  often  caught  a  strange  smile,  almost  a 
sneer,  on  her  lip,  which  more  than  all  else  puzzled  me; 
for  I  knew  that  I  had  somewhere  seen  that  smile  be 
fore. 

It  was  after  midnight  that  I  took  my  accustomed 


92  LATER    YEARS. 

stroll  by  the  surf-side.  The  music  of  the  water  was 
unusually  deep  and  solemn,  and,  as  Willis  expressed  it, 
"  the  waves  were  telling  stories  of  more  important  and 
more  mournful  import  than  usual."  We  had  thrown 
ourselves  down  on  the  sand,  and  were  lying  silent,  and 
I,  at  least,  was  dreaming  of  distant  scenes,  and  ears 
which  the  surf-roar  was  elsewhere  singing  to  sweet 
slumber,  when  we  were  aroused  by  the  approach  of  a 
gentleman  and  lady,  who  passed  us.  I  heard  that  same 
rich  voice  ;  and  now,  though  I  could  not  see  the  face,  I 
knew  the  same  smile  was  there,  for  the  words  uttered 
were  bitterly  sad  in  tone  and  meaning.  They  appear 
ed  to  be  a  reply  to  some  remark  made  by  the  gentleman 
by  her  side. 

"  Better  to  die,  then  —  better,  far,  to  die  !  What  is 
death,  after  all  ?  Life,  having  lost  all  joy,  ceases,  and 
the  aching  brain  slumbers.  The  world  is  little  better 
that  such  as  we  have  lived,  and  will  be  no  worse  that 
we  die.  Its  soil,  indeed,  will  be  somewhat  richer." 

"  No,  Ellen,"  said  a  calm,  deep  voice,  somewhat 
broken  by  age,  "  no,  no  ;  you  reason  wrongly.  If  the 
world  is  no  better  that  we  have  lived,  we  should  live 
longer,  and  so  make  it  better." 

I  could  hear  nothing  more  of  the  conversation  as  they 
passed,  but  I  was  again  wondering  who  the  lady  could 
be,  when  Joe  rose,  and  broke  out  into  one  of  his  strange 
comminglings  of  truth  and  dream,  poetry  and  fact. 

"  I  wish  I  could  live  in  it,"  said  he,  in  a  musing  tone 
as  he  looked  at  the  sea,  "  I  wish  I  could  die  in  it.  To 
lie  down  quietly  on  some  green  bank  under  the  water 


AN    OLD    FRIEND.  93 

and  sleep  ~ ah!  one  might  then  sleep  well.  I  say, 
Phil?" 

"  Well,  Joe  ?"  said  I,  rising,  and  looking  at  him. 

"  Do  you  see  that  large  wave  out  yonder,  that  seems 
hurrying  as  if  anxious  to  dash  on  the  beach  ?" 

"  I  do,"  said  I,  waiting  his  continuance. 

"  And  do  you  see  that  foam-cap  on  it,  breaking  even 
now,  and  now  gone  ?  Is  it  not  beautiful  ?  Well,  I'll 
tell  you  what  I  was  fancying — that  that  wave  was  like 
some  lives  as  it  comes  shoreward,  dark  in  the  main, 
yet  calm,  deep,  steadily  pressing  on.  Once  in  a  while 
a  bright  gleam  on  its  surface  gladdens  it,  but  those 
gleams  are  gone  on  the  instant,  and  the  wave  at  length 
comes  on  and  breaks,  murmuring  the  story  of  its  life  as 
it  rolls  up  the  silvery  beach.  It  breaks  in  brilliant 
foam,  and  the  stars  sparkle  on  the  thousand  plumes 
that  dance  along  its  ridge,  and  plumes,  and  jewels,  and 
all  are  swallowed  up  by  the  great  tide  of  life  that  fol 
lows.  Yet  a  few  bubbles,  bright  and  beautiful,  float 
seaward  over  the  next  waves,  and  come  again  on  shore 
with  others.  These  are  like  memories  of  the  depart 
ed,  which  last  with  us  till  one  by  one  we  follow  them, 
bearing  all  such  memories  with  us.  Wrhy  don't  you 
listen,  Phil?" 

"  I  am  listening,  Joe ;  and  I  was  thinking  of  this 
ocean,  in  which  you  and  I  are  now  so  pleasantly  float 
ing  side  by  side  ;  and  what  waves  sometimes  lift  us  to 
the  stars — waves  of  buoyant  hope,  and  love,  and  wild 
ambition — and  how,  some  stormy  night  in  the  uncertain 
years  to  be,  a  sudden  wave,  a  blue,  strong  wave,  will 


94  LATER    YEARS. 

take  one  of  us  shoreward,  and  leave  the  other  floating 
alone.  It  will  come  suddenly,  Joe.  You  will  hear  me 
shout.  Mayhap  amid  the  roar  of  the  breakers  I  may 
not  be  heard  distinctly,  yet,  my  old  friend,  I  will  call 
aloud  to  you,  and  the  thunder  of  the  surf  will  not 
wholly  overpower  the  last  words  of  my  love  for  you." 

"I  can  not  mistake  that  voice.  It  must  be  my  old 
friend,  Mr.  Phillips." 

I  started  from  my  position  at  this  interruption,  and 
saw  standing  near  me  the  unknown  lady  of  the  Kur- 
saal.  Still  unknown.  I  could  not,  for  my  life,  have 
recalled  that  face,  beautiful  as  it  was.  "  I  see  you  do 
not  know  me,"  continued  the  lady,  "yet  I  remembered 
you  three  hours  ago.  Shall  I  need  to  remind  you  of 
the  Highlands,  or  have  you  forgotten  them  ?  Of  the 
Fawn's  Leap,  or  have  you  so  long  been  absent  from  it 
that  you  have  even  forgotten  Ellen's  Glen?" 

"  Ellen  B !" 

"  The  same — only  my  name  changed  when  I  was 
married.  Allow  me  to  introduce  my  husband,  Mr. 
S ." 

"  I  bowed  as  politely  as  possible  to  the  husband  of 
one  of  that  little  company,  now  widely  scattered,  that 
made  glad  our  schoolboy  days  on  the  Hudson,  and 
straightway  commenced  a  conversation  in  which  all 
the  past  was  recalled.  We  remained  on  the  beach 
half  an  hour,  when  she  bade  us  good-night. 

"  I  must  return.  Mr.  S is  not  well,  and  we  have 

but  walked  out  to  breathe  the  cool  air  after  the  con 
finement  of  the  evening.  You  will  call  on  me  in  the 
niorninfi ?<i 


AN    OLD    FRIEND.  95 

I  readily  promised  this,  and  Joe  and  myself  resumed 
our  places  on  the  sand.  A  long  silence  ensued,  broken 
at  length  by  myself. 

"  Joe,  I  loved  a  man  once  whose  life  was  like  that 
wave  you  were  speaking  of  a  while  ago,  only  it  was  all 
dark,  save  that  once  for  an  instant  a  star  gleamed  on 
a  breaking  crest,  and  oh,  how  holily  !  And  that  wave 
is  somewhere  rolling  yet  in  this  great  ocean  of  life, 
and  I  am  sure  no  gleam  ever  gladdens  it.  That  lady 
had  a  brother.  You  heard  her  say  she  did  not  know 
where  he  was.  Nor  do  I.  Years  have  passed  since 
he  was  in  America. 

"  He  was  born  near  our  old  home,  and  grew  to  man 
hood  by  my  side.  You  knew  him  well,  but  I  see  you 
have  forgotten  the  family.  Did  you  not  recognize 
Ellen  ?" 

"  Is  it  possible?  Ellen  B ?  I  am  surprised.  I 

did  not  hear  her  name  when  you  were  speaking.  Well, 
go  on.  What  became  of  Frank  ?  I  never  heard  of  his 
fate  after  I  left  school." 

I  continued  my  story.     "  He  loved — " 

"And  was  disappointed,  of  course,  as  a  thousand  have 
been,"  interrupted  Joe,  with  a  sudden  sneer. 

"  Yes,  my  cynical  Joe,  he  was  disappointed  ;  and 
when  he  thought  to  have  held  her  to  his  heart,  another 
embrace  was  around  her — she  slept  on  another's  breast. 
She  was  not  the  first  whom  death  has  won  from  the 
embrace  of  affection." 

"  Ah !  she  died,  did  she  ?  Better  for  her  that  she  did . 
Her  love  would  some  day  have  proved  her  agony." 


96  LATER    YEARS. 

"  Joe,  you  are  in.  a  queer  humor  to-night.  You  are 
not  often  so  much  of  an  old  bachelor.  What  has  come' 
over  you?" 

"  Nothing,  nothing ;  go  on  with  your  history  of 
Frank." 

"  I  have  no  history  to  tell  you.  You  know  how  de 
voted  he  was  to  study.  He  loved  nothing  "but  books 
for  years,  until,  one  summer  morning,  a  fairy  startled 
him,  as  he  lay  on  the  bank  of  the  creek,  with  an  open 
volume  of  Plato  by  his  side.  He  looked  up,  and  was 
lost !  He  tried  to  read  on,  but  found  that  every  letter 
was  a  blue  eye,  and  every  page  a  mystery  of  beauty 
which  he  had  never  before  dreamed  of,  and  he  walked 
home  to  astonish  his  sister  by  asking  her  who  a  lady 
was  that  had  passed  him  on  the  bank  that  morning. 

"  Thenceforward  there  was  a  rival  in  his  head  to  his 
books,  and  at  length  she  had  the  victory  complete. 
And  well  she  might.  She  was  as  beautiful  as  a  dream 
— sweet  sixteen,  blue-eyed,  and  very  small.  Frank 
was  tall,  you  remember.  She  was  uncommonly  slight 
in  form,  and  he  could  easily  lift  her  with  one  hand  from 
the  ground.  But  she  had  a  big  heart,  and  loved  her 
noble  lover  with  a  woman's  soul.  Sneer  as  you  will, 
Joe—" 

"  I  did  not  sneer.  There  is  love  such  as  you  dream 
of  in  the  world,  but  not  much." 

"  Right  there  ;  not  much.  Thank  God  for  what  little 
there  is !  It  was  a  beautiful  thing  to  see  how  trusting 
ly  she  leaned  on  his  arm,  and  looked  up  into  his  fine 
dark  eye.  She  feared  him  at  first,  he  was  so  far,  she 


AN    OLD    FRIEND.  97 

thought,  above  her;  but  when  she  found  he  bowed  to 
love  her,  and  throned  her  above  his  own  high  heart, 
then  she  poured  out  on  him  all  the  treasures  of  a  wom 
an's  perfect  love. 

"  I  saw  them  one  night  together  as  I  passed  through 
the  Glen.  Frank  was  seated  on  a  rock,  and  Carrie's 
arm  was  around  his  neck  as  she  stood  by  him.  The 
moon  looked  quietly  down  on  them,  and  didn't  blush  at 
all  when  she  pushed  back  the  dark  hair  from  his  fore 
head  and  kissed  it.  I  think  mayhap  the  moon  is  used 
to  such  sights.  I  passed  on  silently  that  night,  not  in 
terrupting  them.  The  next  day  Frank  left  for  Europe, 
and  never  saw  Carrie  again. 

"  The  wave  of  his  life  was  mighty  now,  and  a  holy 
star  was  beaming  on  it,  and  a  crest  of  pure  snowy  foam 
broke  on  its  breast,  and  sank  into  the  wave,  and  the 
wave  rolled  on,  but  the  star-beam  was  there  no  longer. 

"  That  passionless  embrace  of  the  grave  had  won  her 
when  he  returned :  the  embrace  of  which  no  man  is 
jealous — from  which  no  love  can  win  the  loving! 
How  sweet,  how  deep  is  the  slumber  of  the  beautiful ! 
Never  did  the  earth  reclaim  a  lovelier  form  of  clay. 

"  She  slept  as  a  child  might  sleep,  dreaming  of  all 
beautiful  things.  *  See,  mother,'  said  she,  '  the  moon 
light  creeping  over  the  carpet.  I  shall  live  till  it  touches 
my  forehead,  and  then  die.' 

"And  so  she  died.     The  sad  moonlight  kissed  her 
dear  lips,  and  they  thenceforward  returned  no  caress  of 
earth.    Frank  is  a  wanderer.     His  sister  had  worship 
ped  him.     She  mourned  long  for  him.     She  buried  fa- 
E 


98  LATER    YEARS. 

ther,  mother,  all  she  loved  but  Frank,  and  he  has  left 
her.  Her  life  was  bitterness  for  years.  I  do  not  know 
when  she  married. 

"  Come,  Joe,  let  us  go  up  to  the  house." 


XII. 

€  jr  i  &  n  h  i  it. 

Owl  Creek  Cabin,  September,  18 — . 

IT  gives  me  no  slight  pleasure  to  welcome  you  again 
to  my  cabin.  It  is  scarcely  more  than  two  months 
since  I  was  last  here,  but  I  seem  to  have  been  a  wan 
derer  for  a  long  time,  and  can  not  convince  myself  that 
it  was  so  few  weeks  since  that  we  carried  home  the 
trout  of  our  last  day's  catching. 

I  am  disposed  to  congratulate  myself  on  having  pass 
ed  an  uncommonly  pleasant  summer ;  but  having,  as 
usual,  wearied  myself  quite  down  with  travel  and  la 
bor,  and  feeling  the  approach  of  the  old  fits  of  solitari 
ness,  which,  you  know,  once  in  a  while  overpower  me, 
I  gathered  together  a  collection  of  necessaries  of  life, 
adding  as  large  a  supply  of  the  luxuries  as  I  could  pack 
in  a  carriable  form,  and  one  of  those  bright  mornings, 
two  weeks  ago,  left  New  York  and  am  here.  You  have 
before  heard  the  route.  This  time  I  varied  it  only  in 
meeting  Black  at  the  river,  and  so  avoided  the  labor  of 
carrying  my  pack  up  to  the  cabin.  The  canoe  held  us 
comfortably,  and  my  little  baggage,  to  which,  howev 
er,  were  added  some  packa^s  for  Black. 

My  intention  is  to  remain  here  until  the  winter 
drives  me  out ;  therefore  I  came  prepared  for  a  lonely 


100  LATER    YEARS. 

sort  of  a  time,  but  am  delighted  to  know,  to-day,  that 
Joe  will  be  here  to-morrow.  I  found  a  letter  lying  on 
the  rock  by  the  river  side.  It  was  doubtless  left  there 
by  Smith,  whose  canoe  passed  up  before  daybreak  this 
morning — at  least  he  told  me,  when  I  saw  him  at  the 
bridge,  that  he  should  go  up  last  night. 

Black  has  made  some  important  changes  in  the  cab 
in,  agreeably  to  my  suggestions  last  Spring.  "We  have 
a  new  chimney,  broader  and  deeper  than  the  old  one  : 
that  was  a  stack  chimney,  made  of  pine-wood  strips 
carefully  covered  with  mud  ;  this  is  well  made  of  stone, 
and  covers  the  whole  end  of  the  cabin,  gradually  di 
minishing  in  size  toward  the  roof;  yet  the  stars  look 
pleasantly  down  on  us  through  it  as  we  sit  by  the  fire 
on  the  hearth-stone.  This  hearth-stone  is  an  addition 
of  this  summer.  Black  found  it  on  the  river  side,  and 
managed  to  float  it  down  and  get  it  in  here.  It  is  very 
smooth  and  large.  The  roof  has  been  thoroughly  re 
paired,  and  the  whole  cabin  overhauled,  and  every 
chink  stopped  up  with  clay.  In  the  furniture  I  find 
the  largest  improvement.  I  gave  Black  an  order  for  a 
few  luxurious  matters  in  the  way  of  rugs  and  cushions. 
I  determined  to  abolish  the  outlandish  and  uncomfort 
able  invention  of  chairs  and  stools.  If  you  come  here 
now,  you  will  have  the  pleasure  of  lounging  at  your 
leisure  on  a  bearskin  or  a  rug,  whichever  you  may 
prefer;  and  if  you  do  not  approve  of  my  change,  then 
we  shall  differ.  I'll  find  one  of  the  old  wooden  stools 
for  you,  and  you  may  use  that,  while  I,  at  my  ease  on 
these  magnificent  bearskins,  laugh  at  all  thought  of 


THE    CABIN.  101 

care,  or  trouble,  or  fatigue,  lazily  dropping  the  ashes 
from  my  cigar  on  Nora's  nose,  to  tease  her.  Good  dog ! 
She  never  showed  her  teeth  at  me,  and  she  has  often, 
showed  them  for  me.  I  have  planned  a  monument  for 
you,  my  old  friend,  when  your  hunting  days  are  over, 
and  I  have  determined  to  be  pedantic  enough  to  quote 
Homer  on  the  tablet — that  is,  if  I  outlive  you.  Who 
knows  which  will  go  first  from  the  forest  and  the  cabin  ? 

You  should  have  seen  the  good  dog  leap  on  me  the 
other  day,  when  I  took  my  rifle  down  from  the  antlers, 
on  which  it  has  hung  since  July  intact.  The  dog 
knows  it  is  never  touched  by  me  except  to  be  brought 
out  here,  and  she  took  every  method  to  tell  me  she 
knew  where  I  was  going. 

But  I  was  speaking  of  the  improvement  in  and  about 
the  cabin.  The  old  oak  overhead  has  been  trimmed. 
I  do  not  see  a  limb  now  which  appears  likely  to  fall  in 
the  winter  gales.  I  have  very  serious  ideas  of  recom 
mending  to  Black  to  send  an  advertisement  to  some 
papers  in  the  cities  of  a  new  hotel  opened  on  the 

banks  of  Owl  Creek  and  the River.  I've  no  doubt 

it  would  draw.  But  he  must  warn  those  who  wish 
single  rooms  not  to  come,  for  there  isn't  so  much  as  a 
garret  or  loft.  The  cabin  is  but  one  room.  I  believe 
I  never  told  you  of  its  internal  arrangements.  They 
are  very  simple.  The  chimney  occupies  one  end  en 
tirely.  The  opposite  end  is  hung  from  peak  to  floor 
with  the  skins  of  various  animals,  interspersed  with 
wings  and  brilliant  feathers  of  birds.  In  front  is  the 
door  and  one  small  window.  On  the  opposite  side  are 


102  LATER    YEARS. 

two  windows,  each  about  as  large  as  a  good-sized  pane 
of  glass — say  one  of  the  panes  in  your  parlor  windows. 

In  the  corner,  between  the  door  and  chimney,  stands 
a  table,  rough-hewn  indeed,  but  convenient,  on  which 
our  eatables  are  usually  prepared  for  the  fire.  The 
corner  directly  opposite  belongs  to  me,  and  is  always 
occupied  by  my  bearskins.  That  corner  I  have  filled 
for  many  successive  autumns  with  a  regularity  that  en 
titles  me  to  claim  my  location.  Across  the  cabin,  from 
side-wall  to  side-wall,  extend  four  poles.  The  side- 
walls  are  higher  than  usual  in  log  houses  of  this  size, 
being  about  eight  feet  from  the  floor.  On  these  poles 
hang  many  of  the  utensils  of  daily  life — not  a  few  giant 
bucks'  horns,  some  bears'  claws,  and  a  variety  of  tro 
phies,  from  squirrels'  tails  to  fox  brushes  and  wolf 
scalps.  In  the  farther  end  of  the  room  is  a  pile  of  rugs, 
carpet,  skins,  and  blankets,  on  which,  at  this  moment, 
Black  is  lying,  looking  at  me,  and  expressing  again  and 
again  his  pleasure  at  my  presence. 

I  am  lying  at  full  length,  writing.  My  folio  lies  on 
my  bearskin,  and  I  write  with  more  ease  than  you  who 
are  accustomed  only  to  the  table  and  desk  would  im 
agine  possible.  I  am  half — Hark !  A  long  shout  at 
a  distance.  Black  throws  open  the  door.  The  shout 
is  repeated.  Two  sharp,  quick  yelps  from  Nora!  The 
dog  recognizes  Joe  before  we  do. 

Later. — That  shout  was  meant  to  call  us  to  the  for 
est,  and,  seizing  our  rifles,  we  followed  the  sound.  Im 
agine  our  surprise,  on  leaving  the  cover  on  the  bank 
of  the  river,  at  seeing  Joe  on  the  opposite  side,  crouch- 


THE    CABIN.  103 

ing  behind  a  fallen  tree.  The  instant  he  saw  us,  he 
beckoned  us  to  lie  down  and  keep  Nora  quiet.  We  did 
so  in  surprise,  wondering  meanwhile  what  brought  him 
a  day  before  his  time,  and  what  game  was  up  now. 
The  next  instant  our  last  doubt  was  solved,  for  we  saw 
a  splendid  buck  coming  down  the  hill.  There  were 
two  dogs  at  his  heels,  and  it  was  a  close  run.  The 
hounds  did  not  speak — all  the  better  for  that.  The 
buck  doubled  once  on  the  hill,  and  went  nearly  to  the 
top,  then  wheeled  and  came  down  nobly  to  the  water. 
It  was  a  breakneck  affair  to  come  down  that  steep  hill 
side  in  that  sort  of  way,  and  yet  he  touched  the  ground 
as  lightly  at  each  bound  as  if  he  were  on  the  plain  bot 
tom  land.  There  was  no  appearance  of  exertion  what 
ever.  He  sprang  over  fallen  timber,  and  rocks,  and 
brush  with  the  ease  of  a  bird  ;  nor,  had  you  not  known 
the  peculiar  position  in  which  a  buck  holds  his  head  if 
hard  pushed,  would  you  have  imagined  him  chased. 
He  took  to  the  water  a  hundred  yards  above  us,  and  at 
first  struck  bravely  across.  Something  on  the  opposite 
side  turned  him,  and  he  swam  directly  down  stream. 
The  dogs  followed  along  the  side  of  the  water,  but  he 
kept  coolly  down  the  middle,  until  he  caught  sight  of 
the  cap  I  had  incautiously  lifted  above  the  tree  which 
concealed  me.  He  seemed  instantly  to  determine  on 
the  desperate  chance  of  a  charge  on  the  dogs,  and  so 
wheeled  to  shore,  taking  a  direct  line  for  Joe's  place  of 
concealment.  I  saw  Joe  lying  on  his  side  carelessly, 
and  imagined  instantly  that  he  had  not  seen  the  last 
move  of  the  game  ;  so  I  called  his  attention  by  the  usu- 


104  LATER   YEARS. 

al  signal.  At  the  first  hoot  of  an  owl  he  looked  across, 
at  the  second  he  seized  his  rifle,  and  at  the  third  was 
on  his  knee  looking  over  the  tree  ;  at  this  instant  the 
buck  touched  bottom,  and,  with  long  and  leisurely  leaps, 
was  approaching  the  shore.  The  dogs,  two  broad- 
breasted,  noble  fellows,  stood  side  by  side,  as  quietly 
and  calmly  looking  on  as  if  no  game  were  up.  This 
imperturbable,  undisturbed  look,  the  total  absence  of 
all  care  or  anxiety,  is  a  grand  feature  in  a  dog,  indicat 
ing  great  bottom.  You  would  not  have  supposed,  had 
you  seen  those  dogs  and  not  seen  the  deer,  that  it  was 
possible  for  them  to  stand  the  mad  charge  of  an  angry 
buck.  They  would  breathe  thus  coolly  until  the  in 
stant  he  was  on  them,  and  then,  with  lightning-like 
suddenness,  avoid  his  pointed  antlers,  and  seize  him  by 
the  throat  or  on  the  shoulder,  and  drag  him  down. 

But  they  had  no  opportunity.  The  buck  was  within 
a  few  yards  of  them  when  he  dropped  his  head  for  the 
charge.  If  you  had  not  seen  this  occurrence,  you  could 
not  imagine  the  fury,  both  in  appearance  and  in  action, 
of  the  angry  game.  Every  hair  on  his  body  seems  to 
turn  forward.  The  ridge  of  the  back  is  covered  with 
stiff  bristling  hair,  and  the  deer  looks  more  like  a  hye 
na  than  an  animal  of  his  own  species. 

The  buck  fixed  his  eye  on  the  dogs.  I  was  too  far 
off  to  see  it,  but  it  must  have  sparkled  with  rage.  It 
is  a  very  false  idea  that  a  black  eye  can  express  anger 
better  than  a  light  one.  Save  me  from  the  flashes  of 
a  blue  eye !  It  is  difficult  to  drive  out  the  love-light 
from  an  eye  of  heaven's  own  color,  and  bring  in  there 


THE    CABIN.  105 

the  fiery  light  of  hatred  or  rage.  But  when  you  have 
succeeded  in  doing  it,  my  advice  is  to  keep  away  from 
the  reach  of  those  same  eyes  and  the  hands  that  they 
guide.  The  same  is  true  of  women  and  of  deer. 

I  never  saw  an  eye  in  living  being,  human  or  brute, 
that  bore  any  comparison  in  beauty  with  the  blue  eye 
of  a  deer ;  and  the  light  which  flashes  from  it  in  rage 
is  not  at  all  comfortable.  It  scares  one.  I  once  stood 
a  charge  from  a  mad  deer  behind  a  tree.  I  had  time 
enough  to  examine  that  eye,  and  don't  care  to  see  an 
other  such  one. 

He  was  about  three  rods  from  shore.  The  water 
was  shallow  there,  and  he  hardly  wet  his  feet.  "With 
horns  leveled  and  dilated  nostrils,  he  made  one  long 
leap,  touched  lightly  in  the  water,  as  if  on  the  surface, 
barely  disturbing  the  glassy  mirror,  sprang  again  into 
the  air,  and — crack !  He  came  down  on  his  feet,  stag 
gered  forward,  leaped  up,  and  fell  on  the  water's  edge. 
The  dogs  had  him  before  he  fell,  and  I  could  see  Joe 
push  away  the  nose  of  one  of  them  to  draw  his  knife 
across  the  throat  of  his  game. 

In  a  few  moments  some  men  came  down  to  the  wa 
ter,  and  claimed  ownership  of  the  dogs.  We  could  see 
a  parley  ensuing,  and  at  length  Joe  called  to  us  to  ask 
the  condition  of  our  larder.  "We  replied  that  it  was 
full,  but  we  had  no  objection  to  a  roasting-piece  ;  so  we 
pushed  across  in  the  small  canoe,  and  I  grasped  Joe's 
hand  right  gladly  on  the  bank.  His  debut  on  the  river 
may  be  reckoned  as  promising  well  for  the  fall  sport. 
Certainly  I  never  saw  a  cooler  or  a  better  sho^  and  the 
E2 


106  LATER    YEARS. 

quiet  enjoyment  which  he  displayed  in  the  affair  indi 
cates  no  lack  of  willingness  to  hunt.  You  are  doubt 
less  scolding  all  this  time  for  our  killing  a  buck  in  Sep 
tember,  and  I  confess  to  a  dislike  to  own  the  fact  my 
self;  not  because  I  think  it  wrong,  but  because  others 
do.  After  the  first  frosts  on  the  ground,  I  esteem  ven 
ison  as  growing  poorer  and  poorer.  The  finest  is  to  be 
had  just  at  this  season — perhaps  a  week  or  a  fortnight 
hence  will  be  better.  "We  do  not  intend  to  shoot  more 
than  enough  for  our  immediate  wants  until  later. 


XIII. 

a  Inn  /ot 

Owl  Creek  Cabin,  October,  18—. 
and  fainter,  now  half  inaudible,  now 
-L  wholly  lost  in  the  distance,  and  quite  gone.  Again, 
for  an  instant,  I  hear  them,  as  they  go  up  some  ravine 
or  cross  the  brow  of  a  hill — and  now  all  is  still  again. 
It  must  be  five  miles  from  here,  I  think,  yet  I  can  still 
catch,  at  times,  the  cry  of  the  chase,  and  fancy  that 
Nora's  voice  is  more  distinct  than  the  other  dogs'. 
They  opened  on  the  hill  side,  close  to  the  cabin,  and 
have  continued,  without  interruption,  for  an  hour,  doub 
ling  frequently,  and  approaching  me,  but  now  they  have 
been  steadily  receding,  and  must  have  crossed  the  east 
hills.  It  would  not  be  surprising  if  the  deer  were  shot 
on  the  Willahanna.  I  am  not  out  to-day,  for  the  rea 
son  that  I  hurt  my  foot  in  the  last  hunt,  and  am  unable 
to  walk  without  pain.  It  was  a  foolish  affair  too.  I 
sprang  from  a  rock  into  the  top  of  a  sapling,  thinking 
thereby  to  shorten  my  way  down  the  mountain.  It  is 
a  common  custom  with  us,  but  this  time  I  did  not  look 
before  I  leaped,  and  so  found  my  sapling  was  a  brittle 
one,  and  I  shortened  my  way  with  a  vengeance  ;  for  it 
broke  off  after  bending  halfway  down,  and,  instead  of 
lowering  me  gently  to  the  ground,  I  fell  about  fifteen 


108  LATER    YEARS. 

feet  into  a  cedar  bush,  and  rolled  from  that  into  a  pile 
of  stones,  and  picked  myself  up  with  a  sore  knee,  and 
a  half-sprained  ankle,  and  a  scratched  face,  and  numer- 
rous  other  disasters,  among  which  rnay  be  reckoned  a 
twist  of  rny  foot,  which  is  the  only  bruise  that  is  not 
well.  I  don't  exactly  know  the  anatomy  of  feet,  but  I 
have  a  fancy  that  I  have  injured  the  cartilage  between 
two  of  the  bones,  and  may  be  laid  up  for  a  while.  My 
foot  is  laid  up — on  a  cushion,  while  I  lie  down  on  my 
bearskin,  and  thus  you  perceive  why  it  is  that  I  am 
solus  in  the  cabin,  while  Black,  and  Joe,  and  Nora  are 
on  the  hills.  I  have  been  whiling  away  an  hour  with 
reading  over  the  last  letters  received  by  package  from 
the  city.  You  can  hardly  imagine  the  zest  which  a 
letter  has  when  received  here.  It  is  like  wine  to  a 
thirsty  man ;  and  one  reads  and  re-reads  letters,  until 
they  are  as  familiar  as  nursery  songs.  This,  by-the- 
way,  is  only  true  of  a  few  out  of  many  letters,  and  it 
must  be  confessed  that  that  last  package  contained 
much  in  the  way  of  trash,  that  affords  no  amusement. 

Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  thought  as  I  was  rolling  down 
the  hill  side  day  before  yesterday  ?  Oddly  enough,  I 
was  at  that  instant  imagining  the  gay  crowd  that  must 
be  in  attendance  at  the  Fair  at  Castle  Garden,  and  half 
wishing  I  could  look  in  on  those  pretty  faces.  There 
are  always  pretty  faces  to  be  seen  there,  for  the  reason 
that  country  ladies  are  then  so  plenty  in  the  city.  As 
I  was  fancying  that  crowd,  and  imagining  my  whiskers 
turned  inquisitively  to  some  red-lined  bonnet  and  houri 
face  (you  see  I  have  not  outgrown  follies,  old  as  I  am), 


A    SORE    FOOT.  109 

I  suddenly  found  my  feet  elevated  above  my  head,  and 
my  whiskers  sadly  tortured  by  that  villainous  cedar 
bush.  Think  of  it !  It  was  four  o'clock  precisely  in 
the  afternoon,  for  my  watch  was  stopped  by  the  fall, 
and  at  that  instant  you  were  lifting  your  first  spoonful 
of  soup  to  your  lips,  and  glancing  across  the  table  at 
your  vis-a-vis ;  or,  if  you  had  sacrificed  dinner  to  pleas 
ure,  you  were  pointing  out  a  delicate  rose-bud  or  dahlia 
in  the  gallery  to  the  notice  of  our  enchanting  friend, 

Miss !     Did   not   a   shudder   of  some    sort  pass 

through  you  ?  Imagine  your  friend's  position  at  that 
instant  —  his  plaid  hunting-jacket  sadly  displaced,  his 
legs  thrust  far  through  his  brown  pants,  exhibiting  the 
soles  of  his  shoes  to  the  sunshine  and  the  sky,  his  ven 
erable  head  quite  lost  in  cedar !  Then,  as  you  laid  your 
gloved  finger  on  the  faultless  arm  of  your  lovely  com 
panion,  or  (supposing  you  at  dinner)  as  you  laid  down 
your  spoon,  and  smiled  a  bow  (or  bowed  a  smile)  to 
your  neighbor,  and  called  John  to  hand  you  the  salt 
(which  delinquency  on  your  part  John  reported  to  the 
cook,  who  is  henceforth  your  enemy !  How  dare  you 
ask  for  more  salt  in  your  soup  ?),  at  that  next  instant, 
imagine  the  velocity  with  which  your  friend's  feet  and 
head  were  alternating  in  position,  up,  down,  up,  down, 
as  the  gymnastic  professors  used  to  say ;  and  paint,  if 
you  can,  his  exceeding  astonishment  of  countenance  at 
finding  himself  at  length,  wrong  side  up,  in  a  heap  of 
slatestone  and  stumps.  Ah  !  it  was  shockingly  rude, 
that  perfect  nonchalance  of  yours  there  in  New  York, 
while  I  was  in  such  a  fix  out  here. 


110  LATER    YEARS. 

"Well,  well,  who  knows  what's  going  on  in  the  world 
at  this  instant  ?  How  can  I  tell  but  you  are  in  some 
"  peculiar  position,"  while  I  lie  at  my  ease  on  '  my 
bearskin?'  Who  can  tell  me  the  present  occupations 

of  those  I  love  ?     How  know  I  but  you,  dear ,  may 

be  sick,  sad,  weary,  dead,  at  this  instant  that  I  so  laugh 
ingly  am  recounting  to  you  my  mishap  ?  I  told  you, 
when  I  saw  you  last,  that  Joe  and  myself  had  subscribed 
a  dozen  skins  each  toward  a  magnetic  telegraph  out 
here  ;  but  the  stock  doesn't  sell  well,  and  no  other  sub 
scriptions  are  on  the  paper. 

By-the-way,  I  shot  a  wolf  once  from  the  very  rock 
from  which  I  jumped  so  carelessly.  It  was  long  ago, 
when  wolves  were  more  plenty  than  they  are  now  in 
this  neighborhood.  Of  late  years  they  are  scarce,  but 
in  my  early  hunting  days  I  used  to  meet  them  fre 
quently.  I  was  coming  home  at  evening,  one  fall  day, 
with  no  game,  and,  as  you  may  suppose,  I  was  some 
what  inclined  to  be  cross.  As  I  passed  the  side  of  the 
hill,  I  heard  a  short  bark  very  like  the  yelp  of  a  dog 
over  his  food,  and,  looking  round,  saw  a  wolf  on  the 
rock,  dragging  along  the  fore  quarters  of  a  deer  I  had 
shot  the  day  previous.  You  know  that  we  usually 
leave  the  fore  quarters  in  the  woods. 

I  did  not  stop  to  ask  the  chances  of  a  fight  between 
the  wolf  and  myself,  but  sent  a  bullet  up  the  rock  with 
out  any  delay  whatever.  My  habit  in  shooting  is  to 
depend  on  the  first  sight  I  catch  of  any  game.  I  never 
hold  a  rifle  at  my  shoulder  more  than  the  instant  em 
ployed  in  pulling  the  trigger,  unless  the  game  is  running 


A   SORE    FOOT.  Ill 

through  dense  cover,  and  seldom  then.  I  shot  with 
even  unusual  quickness,  and  the  scoundrel  dropped  his 
game,  looked  snarlingly  down  toward  me  with  a  very 
ugly  expression  of  face,  lifted  his  right  paw,  and  set  it 
down  again,  seemed  to  be  trying  his  strength,  and  then 
to  conclude  that  he  had  none,  and  thereupon  lay  down 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  rock,  and  rolled  off,  bringing  up 
(very  much  as  I  did)  against  a  stump  close  by  my  side. 
You  should  have  seen  me  go  up  the  nearest  tree.  I 
was  among  the  branches  before  the  wolf  could  have 
turned  over,  had  he  been  wide  awake  ;  but  he  was  dead 
as  a  stone.  I  didn't  know,  of  course,  how  much  life 
there  was  in  him,  and  hence  my  quick  retreat.  I  load 
ed  my  rifle  (I  carried  only  a  single  barrel  then)  in  the 
tree  before  I  came  down,  but  a  better  shot  never  was 
made.  I  had  made  a  hole  through  him,  and  let  out 
enough  blood  to  take  life  with  it.  I  took  his  hide  off 
in  a  twinkling,  and  his  scalp  is  the  highest  one  yonder 
on  the  end  of  the  cabin.  I  wish  Joe  would  come.  I'm 
getting  lonesome  here,  and  am  satisfied  I  know  every 
piece  of  bark  in  the  covering  of  this  cabin ;  I've  been 
lying  on  my  back  studying  their  separate  looks  all  the 
morning,  and,  as  you  may  well  suppose,  I  am  getting 
uneasy.  I  am  hungry  withal,  and  don't  suppose  there's 
a  crust  in  the  larder.  By-the-way,  there  was  a  light 
fall  of  snow  here  about  a  week  ago,  in  the  night,  and 
we  had  capital  sport  shooting  at  rabbits.  Just  as  day 
was  breaking,  I  woke,  and,  while  standing  in  the  door 
of  the  cabin,  saw  a  little  fellow  coming  with  leisurely 
jumps  out  of  the  cover,  at  nearly  or  quite  thirty  rods 


112  LATER    YEARS. 

distance.  I  could  not  at  first  tell  what  it  was,  but  at 
length,  as  he  came  Avithin  about  seventy-five  yards,  I 
sent  a  bullet  after  him,  and  he  was  on  the  breakfast 
table  an  hour  afterward.  My  rifle,  of  course,  woke  Joe, 
and  within  ten  minutes  we  shot  six  of  them  from  the 
same  position.  The  last  one  was  nearer  than  the  others 
when  Joe  prepared  to  shoot,  and,  at  the  instant  he 
raised  his  rifle,  I  gave  a  short,  loud  whistle.  The  rab 
bit  sprang  six  feet,  and  I  took  it  for  granted  that  Joe 
couldn't  shoot ;  but  the  ball  and  the  rabbit  seemed  to 
meet  on  the  ground,  for  he  shot  at  the  instant  he  struck, 
and  hit  him.  Joe  is  undoubtedly  a  splendid  shot ;  few 
equal,  and  none  surpass  him.  You  may  rest  assured 
that  two  thirds  of  the  stories  you  read  about  rifle-shoot 
ing  are  "gammon,"  to  use  Black's  phrase;  and  common 
sense  should  tell  every  one  so.  I  am  a  poor  enough 
shot  myself,  but  I  have  seen  probably  as  good  rifle- 
shooting  as  the  country  can  show,  and  I  never  saw  a 
man  who  could  kill  birds  flying  with  any  sort  of  accu 
racy,  unless  the  birds  are  very  large.  I  have  seen  it 
done,  indeed,  and  have  done  it  myself.  I  blew  a  wood 
cock  to  pieces  with  a  rifle  ball  some  time  ago.  He  rose 
from  a  swamp  which  I  was  crossing  after  a  fox,  and  I 
shot,  as  usual,  without  an  instant's  thought.  There  was 
no  skill  in  it,  for  I  might  shoot  at  fifty,  and  miss  forty- 
nine,  and  doubtless  should.  It  may  be  regarded  as  a 
common  sense  fact,  that  no  man  has  sufficiently  fine 
sense  of  sight  to  distinguish,  within  half  an  inch,  the 
centre  of  a  mark  at  two  hundred  yards.  Killing  small 
game,  snuffing  candles,  cutting  off  turkeys'  heads,  and 


A   SORE   FOOT.  113 

all  that  sort  of  thing,  is  very  good  shooting ;  and  the 
man  that  can  hit  a  shilling  at  two  hundred  yards  twice 
out  of  three  times  successively,  may  be  reckoned  an  ex 
traordinary  shot. 

Joe,  I  have  said,  is  a  good  shot.  He  ranks  with  me 
as  the  best  shot  I  have  ever  seen.  As  an  instance  of 
it,  I  may  refer  to  that  rabbit ;  and  a  still  better  instance 
is  given  in  his  shots  last  Tuesday  afternoon,  for  no  one 
shot  is  a  specimen  of  any  man's  shooting.  He  was 
standing  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  just  before  sunset, 
and  a  large  buck  came  down  to  the  water  on  the  oppo 
site  side.  "  It  is  too  bad  to  shoot  such  a  noble  fellow 
when  he  has  no  chance  whatever,"  said  my  friend,  and 
thereupon  he  placed  his  hand  on  his  lips,  and  gave  that 
piercing  yell  which  rings  through  the  forest  like  the 
cry  of  fiends.  The  deer  bounded  into  the  air,  and,  as 
we  had  supposed  he  would,  finding  the  cover  too  thick 
behind  him,  ran  down  the  river  about  seventy  yards, 
and  then  leaped  a  fallen  tree  with  a  gallant  leap.  At 
that  point  Joe  shot,  and  he  fell  on  the  pebbly  shore  with 
the  ball  through  his  body.  He  was  not  quite  dead,  and 
while  I  was  getting  the  canoe  ready  to  cross,  I  heard 
Joe  saying,  "  It's  too  bad  to  see  the  poor  fellow  strug 
gling  so.  I  meant  to  kill  him  dead.  Well,  here  goes 
for  it,  and  if  this  doesn't  relieve  him,  I'll  wait  for  the 
knife.  Philip,  shall  I  kill  him  quicker  by  a  ball  in  the 
head,  or  where  ?"  The  buck  was  lying  with  his  fore 
legs  out  before  him  and  his  head  up,  trying  to  raise  him 
self.  "  Try  his  head  and  heart  both,  Joe."  My  remark 
was  followed  by  two  discharges  of  his  rifle  in  quick  sue- 


114  LATER    YEARS. 

cession.  At  the  first  the  deer  sprang  quite  up  on  his 
feet,  and  at  the  second  fell  dead.  I  found  that  he  had 
a  ball  through  his  breast  and  heart,  directed  with  ex 
cellent  judgment :  this  was  the  first ;  the  second  had 
entered  the  skull  behind  the  eye.  The  distance  across 
the  water  could  not  have  been  less  than  a  hundred  and 
twenty-five  yards.  Here  come  Joe  and  Black,  and  I 
shall  have  some  dinner.  I  don't  know  how  long  this 
may  lie  in  my  folio  before  it  will  reach  you,  for  we  have 
no  idea  of  sending  down  again  this  month. 


XIV. 

2JH  I  U 

Owl  Creek  Cabin,  November,  18 — . 

WE  left  the  cabin  at  daylight,  and  intended  to  have 
reached  the  bank  of  the  Willahanna  that  same 
night,  but  the  day's  adventures  prevented  it,  for  we 
were  led  to  follow  a  track  which  we  found  in  a  swampy 
place,  hoping  to  get  sight  of  the  bear  whose  enormous 
footprint  it  was.  As  usual  in  bear-chases,  it  proved  a 
long  day's  work,  with  no  result  except  the  catching  of 
a  fawn,  which  had  fallen  into  a  pit  from  which  it  could 
not  leap.  We  were,  of  course,  forced  to  let  it  go,  and 
yet  it  would  not  leave  us,  but  followed  for  half  an  hour 
through  the  woods,  until  it  grew  weary,  and  we  left  it. 
Night  found  us  still  some  miles  to  northward  of  the 
lake,  and  we  looked  about  for  a  place  to  lay  our  weary 
bodies. 

At  length  we  found  on  a  hill  side  a  sort  of  cave,  into 
which  the  leaves  of  autumn  that  had  fallen  already 
were  driven  by  the  winds,  and  formed  a  bed  quite  soft 
enough  for  us.  So,  stretching  ourselves  out  on  them  to 
try  them,  we  discussed  a  plan  for  the  night,  which  was 
immediately  put  into  execution. 

Kindling  a  fire,  we  piled  on  it  large  logs  to  burn  slow 
ly,  and  taking  some  pine  knots  which  Willis  had  in  his 


116  LATER    YEARS. 

pocket,  we  found  a  large  flat  stone,  on  which  we  placed 
them,  and,  setting  fire  to  them,  carried  them  into  the 
forest  some  hundred  yards  from  our  cave.  Placing 
them  on  the  ground  in  an  open  space  among  the  trees, 
we  retired  some  twenty  paces,  and  lay  on  the  ground, 
each  by  a  fallen  tree,  Willis  on  one  side  of  the  fire,  and 
myself  on  the  opposite. 

And  now  the  scene  in  the  forest  was  beautiful  in 
deed — beautiful  or  grand,  I  scarcely  know  which  to  call 
it.  The  trees  were  lofty,  and  their  huge  trunks  were 
bare  of  limbs  for  forty  or  fifty  feet  from  the  ground. 
The  bark  on  which  the  firelight  gleamed  seemed  to  be 
the  rough  skin  of  some  huge  monsters,  while  those  trees 
that  lay  on  the  ground,  stretching  away  into  the  gloom, 
appeared  to  be  great  serpents  sleeping  on  the  grass. 
But  the  branches  assumed  the  most  beautiful  appear 
ance,  for  the  rays  of  light  danced  among  the  leaves,  and 
met  the  moonlight  as  it  struggled  down  through  the 
dense  covering ;  and  to  us,  looking  up  from  our  posi 
tions,  it  was  as  if  a  mimic  scene  had  been  gotten  up  for 
our  amusement,  of  heaven  struggling  with  earth,  and 
striving  with  its  purity  to  conquer  earth's  passion.  As 
too  often,  earth  prevailed  over  heaven,  and  the  firelight 
went  up  into  the  air,  and  we  could  see  the  smoke,  faint 
ly  lit  with  red  rays,  floating  away  in  the  moonlight. 
Nor  was  the  scene  all  that  went  to  make  up  the  attrac 
tion  of  the  position  we  had  taken.  The  sounds  of  the 
lonely  forest  are  always  full  of  melody.  The  low  hum 
of  the  insect  that  fills  one's  ear  in  the  cleared  lands,  the 
chirp  of  the  cricket  or  the  katydid,  is  not  to  be  heard 


THE   WILLAHANNA.  117 

here.  But  in  the  midst  of  solemn  and  soul-soothing 
silence,  a  voice  will  fall  with  indescribable  sweetness 
on  the  ear  of  the  forest  sleeper,  as  the  wind  woos  the 
topmost  branches  of  the  trees,  and  they  try  to  embrace 
him  in  their  swaying  arms.  Then  he  whispers  to  them 
in  that  low,  earnest  tone,  that  is  the  especial  language 
of  love,  and  as  I  lay  and  heard  them  holding  that  whis 
pered  converse,  I  remembered  the  days  when  I  first 
learned  to  use  that  voice — the  days  of  old  !  And  I  re 
membered  one  that  passed  in  the  springtime  of  her  life 
unto  the  land  where  spring  is  alway.  Anon  the  wind 
spoke  louder,  and  then  hushed  into  a  deep  calm,  from 
which  he  did  not  rouse  himself  again  till  midnight.  In 
the  midst  of  this  stillness,  we  heard  the  fall  of  a  dried 
branch  from  a  lofty  tree.  It  was  a  mournful  sound, 
followed  on  the  next  instant  by  what  I  supposed  at  first 
to  be,  in  very  truth,  the  hoot  of  the  gray  owl,  but  at  the 
next  instant  knew  as  Willis's  call  to  look  out  for  game. 
This  sound  of  the  owl  it  is  always  safe  to  use,  as  it 
never  frightens  game,  and  it  is  therefore  the  most  com 
mon  signal  among  woodsmen.  I  did  not  move,  but 
opened  my  ears  somewhat  wider,  and  heard  the  crack 
ing  of  a  dry  twig  over  beyond  Willis.  Turning  my 
eyes  in  that  direction,  still  motionless  myself,  I  watched 
the  dense  gloom  in  the  forest  for  some  moments,  when 
I  heard  a  sudden  bound  of  a  deer,  and  the  next  instant 
saw  him  dash  through  a  moonlit  opening  about  a  hund 
red  yards  to  the  westward.  He  had  not  seen  us,  but 
was  making  a  circuit  of  the  fire.  This  was  rather  an 
odd  and  inexplicable  movement,  as  the  deer  usually 


118  LATER    YEARS. 

moves  slowly  at  night,  and  approaches  a  firelight  as  if 
fascinated. 

Keeping  my  eye  on  him  as  well  as  I  was  able,  and 
endeavoring  to  cover  him  with  my  rifle,  I  followed  him 
half  around  the  fire,  and,  as  he  passed  through  another 
opening  I  had  him,  and  shot.  At  the  very  instant  I 
shot,  Joe's  rifla  cracked  ;  both  balls  struck  him,  and  he 
fell.  My  knife,  drawn  swiftly  across  his  throat,  finish 
ed  him,  and  in  half  an  hour  a  choice  piece  was  broiling 
on  the  coals  of  our  fire  in  front  of  the  cave. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  cave.  It  was  nothing  more  than 
a  shelf  of  rock,  which  projected  ten  or  twelve  feet  over 
a  flat  table  of  some  thirty  by  twenty  feet.  On  this  lat 
ter  had  fallen  many  large  rocks,  and  two  of  these  lay 
in  such  a  way  as  to  form  sides  to  the  room  under  the 
shelf,  and  in  some  measure  protect  us  from  the  night 
air,  which  was  not  very  warm.  Drawing  the  fire  as 
close  to  the  opening  in  front  as  we  could,  and  throwing 
on  large  logs,  which  we  collected  without  difficulty,  and 
piling  up  half  a  cord  to  be  used  in  the  night,  should 
we  wake,  we  were  soon  sleeping  a  sound  sleep  and 
dreaming.  I  dreamed  of  the  surf-roar,  and  of  voices 
mingling  with  it,  and  of  merry  times  in  the  summer 
past,  of  Saratoga,  of  Ballston,  of  chowders,  and  of  the 
hunt :  all  went  mixed  up  in  strange  confusion  through 
my  brain,  and  I  awoke  at  sunrise  with  a  start,  and  won 
dered  at  finding  myself  where  I  was. 

"We  breakfasted  with  Smith  on  the  shore  of  the  lake, 
about  a  mile  from  the  outlet,  and  found  Black  there 
with  Nora,  as  per  agreement.  After  breakfast  the 


THE   WILLAHANNA.  119 

dogs  were  put  out,  and  in  an  hour  brought  two  deer 
into  the  lake  at  more  than  a  mile  from  any  of  us. 
Canoes  were  plenty,  however,  and  we  dashed  in  pur 
suit  over  the  water.  The  scene  which  ensued  was  ex 
citing.  The  deer  swam  side  by  side,  and  were  appar 
ently  endeavoring  to  cross  at  the  widest  part.  I  was 
nearer  to  them  than  any  of  the  rest  at  the  start,  but  Joe 
had  a  lighter  canoe,  and  overtook  me.  Leaving  my 
own  to  take  care  of  itself,  I  jumped  into  his,  and  both 
together  made  the  little  thing  fly  over  the  water.  We 
headed  the  game  at  half  a  mile  from  the  shore,  and 
Black  and  Smith,  who,  in  their  canoes,  were  not  a 
hundred  yards  behind  us,  took  one,  while  we  took  the 
other.  I  dropped  my  paddle,  and  Joe  sent  the  boat 
alongside  of  the  gallant  fellow,  who  was  making  noble 
efforts  for  his  life.  Leaning  over  carefully  (you  may 
imagine  the  danger  of  the  attempt,  the  fair  chance  for 
a  cool  bath  at  the  least),  I  seized  him  by  the  antlers, 
and  braced  myself  lest  he  should  overturn  us  all.  The 
moment  that  I  touched  him  he  ceased  to  struggle,  and 
resigned  himself  apparently  to  his  fate.  But  as  Joe 
advanced  from  his  end  of  the  canoe  to  assist  me,  the 
stout  buck  threw  his  fore  feet  into  the  air  and  plunged 
with  great  force.  Keeping  the  canoe  straight  as  well 
as  I  was  able,  and  holding  him  fast,  I  struggled  with 
him  till  I  got  a  fair  opportunity,  and  then  wrenched  his 
head  suddenly  backward  and  upward.  Joe's  sharp 
knife  slid  across  his  throat,  and  I  let  go  my  hold,  and, 
seizing  a  paddle,  pushed  away  some  feet  from  him. 
The  water  was  red  with  his  blood  in  an  instant,  and, 


120  LATER    YEARS. 

after  a  few  plunges,  he  turned  over,  and  his  head  went 
down.  It  was  an  easy  matter  to  lift  him  into  the  canoe, 
and  turn  to  see  what  Smith  and  Black  were  about. 
They  were  trying  to  take  their  deer  alive,  and,  after 
half  an  hour's  battle,  gave  it  up  entirely  and  killed 
him. 

They  returned  to  Smith's  cabin,  while  Joe  and  my 
self  paddled  down  to  the  outlet,  and  made  our  bow  to 
the  fair  lady  whom  you,  perhaps,  remember  I  once 
spoke  of. 


XV. 


Bank  of  the  Willahanna,  February,  18  —  . 

I  HAVE  passed  the  winter  here  and  there,  and,  after 
a  short  stay  in  the  city,  I  accepted  an  urgent  invita 
tion  from  a  friend  to  accompany  him  to  the  Willahan 
na,  where  I  now  date  this  letter.  I  trust  it  will  reach 
you,  but  it  may  not,  inasmuch  as  the  snow  is  deeper 
than  you  ever  dreamed  of  snow  in  New  York,  and  the 
thermometer  is  farther  below  zero  than  you  would  be 
lieve  if  I  should  tell  you. 

I  remained  a  short  time  in  the  city,  I  say,  but  long 
enough  to  see  many  of  its  scenes,  pleasant  as  well  as 
sad.  I  joined  a  merry  party,  one  evening,  of  young, 
light-hearted  friends.  I  was  charged  with  the  care  of 
two  of  these,  to  take  safely  and  return  safely  to  their 
homes.  It  was  a  clear,  calm  night,  and  bitterly  cold. 
We  paused  a  moment  on  our  way,  and  I  left  the  ladies 
while  I  attended  to  an  item  of  business.  After  com 
pleting  this,  I  was  surprised  by  a  man  coming  toward 
me  on  the  side-walk,  as  I  stood  with  my  foot  on  the 
step,  and  saying,  "  Mr.  Phillips,  will  you  please  to  walk 
in  here  a  moment?"  His  manner  and  appearance 
struck  me,  and  I  followed  him.  He  led  me  into  a  low 
drinking-shop,  where  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  lay  a 
F 


122  LATER  YEARS. 

man  apparently  dead.  I  never  saw  a  more  horrible 
sight,  and  I  have  seen  death  in  many  forms.  Blood 
covered  every  thing — the  floor,  the  hands  of  those 
around,  the  body  of  the  wounded  man.  I  waited  only 
long  enough  to  see  that  he  had  the  best  of  surgical  at 
tendance,  and  left  him  ;  but  he  would  not  leave  me.  I 
sat  on  the  seat,  as  we  drove  on,  facing  my  two  lovely 
companions,  but  could  not  fix  my  eyes  even  on  their 
faces.  That  horrible  visage  was  before  me,  with  its 
blood,  and  the  look  of  agony  that  was  on  it  haunted  me. 
The  merry  laughter  of  the  gay,  the  dance,  the  song,  the 
voices,  and  the  melodies  of  the  young,  the  sunny-eyed, 
the  free-hearted,  sufficed  not  to  drive  away  that  hideous 
spectre.  And  I  went  home  and  slept,  and  dreamed  of 
it  in  sleep.  So  directly  are  the  different  scenes  of  life 
and  death  in  juxtaposition  here  in  this  great  metropo 
lis  !  I  grow  weary  of  the  incessant,  startling  varieties 
of  life.  I  pass  the  crowded  street,  and  see  a  hearse 
making  its  way  slowly  through  dense  masses  of  stages, 
and  carriages,  and  carts.  Here  it  is  quite  stopped  by 
the  heavy  truck  that  is  carrying  the  rocks  that  are  to 
build  a  perishable  monument — scarcely  less  perishable 
than  the  clay  which  waits  its  passing.  Now  it  hesi 
tates,  and  turns  aside  for  a  carriage  from  which  the  wild 
laugh  of  merriment  falls  on  the  unconscious  ears  of  the 
dead.  And  anon  a  child,  clapping  its  tiny  hands  and 
shouting  gayly,  calls  his  mother  to  see  the  velvet  pall 
and  strangely-clad  horses,  never  heeding,  never  think 
ing  that  the  little  hands  will  lie  nerveless  under  such 
a  pall,  and  the  mirth-loving  lip  be  hushed  to  just  such 


PIKE    FISHING.  123 

slumber.  And  I,  thus  thinking,  pass  on,  forgetting  not 
that  my  footsteps  on  that  worn  pavement  make  a  mel 
ancholy  echo  among  the  coffined  sleepers  in  the  vaults 
below,  but  treading  no  less  heavily  when  I  remember 
that  they  will  not  heed  even  the  earthquake,  so  pro 
found  is  their  slumber.  And  even  as  I  pass  on,  a  friend 
overtakes  me  and  tells  me  of  the  death  of  one  I  knew 
and  loved,  and  whose  passing  clay  I  knew  not  but  a 
moment  before.  And  I  grow  sick  of  the  city,  and  long 
to  be  away  from  it  among  other  scenes  ;  and  so  I  ac 
cept  any  invitation  that  offers,  and  am  away.  Ecce  sig- 
?mm,  I  am  here. 

The  snow  is  deep,  as  I  have  said.  Fortunately,  the 
lake  had  not  frozen  over  when  the  last  snow  fell.  For 
tunately,  I  say ;  for  now  the  water  is  covered  with 
glassy  ice,  firm  and  thick,  which  is  decidedly  advanta 
geous  to  our  purposes,  namely,  pike  fishing.  You  will 
think  it  cold  sport  to  catch  fish  at  this  season  ;  but  it  is 
not  so  cold  when  the  excitement  is  on,  and  when  the 
fishing  is  good.  Yesterday,  it  must  be  confessed,  was 
cold  in  the  forenoon.  The  fish  would  not  bite,  and  we 
lacked  the  necessary  excitement.  But  by  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon  it  became  more  enlivening,  and  the 
night  was  glorious. 

Probably  few  have  either  tried  or  heard  of  the  sport 
of  pike  fishing  through  the  ice  ;  and,  although  it  is  a 
method  of  taking  them  which  requires  no  skill  what 
ever,  still  it  is  one  which  I  have  enjoyed  from  the  time 
I  was  old  enough  to  handle  a  line  ;  and  although  there 
is,  beyond  doubt,  far  more  pleasure,  and  more  reason 


124  LATER    YEARS. 

for  pleasure,  in  the  skillful  handling  of  a  trout-rod,  and 
the  graceful  management  of  a  fly,  still  there  is  a  decided 
gratification  connected  with  the  pulling  up  of  five,  ten, 
or  twenty  pounds  of  fish  by  main  force.  In  the  same  way, 
I  have  enjoyed  keenly  the  pleasure  which  a  bear-hunt 
affords,  and  have  entered  into  all  the  spirit  and  danger 
of  such  sport  whenever  opportunity  offers,  but  have 
none  the  less  enjoyed  the  excitement  of  shooting  gray 
squirrels  with  a  shot-gun.  There's  excitement  in  the 
latter  which  I  never  saw  surpassed  in  the  former ;  and 
I  verily  believe  I  have  run  faster,  and  loaded  quicker, 
and  shouted  louder,  and  made  myself  hoarser  in  the 
squirrel-hunt  than  in  the  bear-hunt. 

But  to  the  pike  fishing.  We  put  on  our  skates,  after 
a  capital  breakfast  at  the  house  of  our  worthy  friend, 

Mr. ,  and  started  out  to  explore  the  lake.  It  is  an 

exhilarating  sensation  to  me,  that  of  being  on  skates. 
I  always  feel  as  if  flying,  and  never  enjoy  a  conversa 
tion  more  than  when  gliding  by  the  side  of  a  friend  over 
the  smooth  ice. 

In  an  hour  we  made  the  circuit  of  the  larger  portion 
of  the  lake  (you  will  remember  I  once  told  you  it  was 
shaped  somewhat  like  a  figure  8),  and  by  this  time  our 
men  had  made  preparations  for  fishing.  These  consist 
ed  in  procuring  a  quantity  of  small  fish  for  bait,  cutting 
large  holes  in  the  ice,  and  planting  firmly  by  each  hole 
a  large  bush.  The  holes  were  six  or  eight  in  number, 
and  scattered  along  a  quarter  of  a  mile's  distance. 
Each  line  was  fastened  to  a  bush,  and  baited  with  a 
fish,  and  thrown  into  a  hole — a  line,  of  course,  at  each 


PIKE    FISHING.  125 

hole.  We  waited  an  hour  for  the  first  bite,  and  then 
the  farthest  bush  from  us  was  the  one  which  was  bent 
down.  In  an  instant  we  were  away  for  it,  helter  skel 
ter,  and,  as  I  first  reached  it,  I  seized  the  line,  and  drew 
out  a  miserable-looking  fish,  weighing  less  than  a  pound. 
The  pike  bites  voraciously,  always  hooking  itself.  Half 
an  hour  passed,  and  the  bush  nearest  to  my  friend 

P was  jerked  violently.     A  moment  later,  he  drew 

out  a  fine  fellow,  weighing  about  six  pounds.  As  the 
day  wore  on,  we  went  homeward  for  dinner,  having 
taken  scarcely  twenty  pounds  offish,  all  told.  We  had 
one  (the  second  one  which  was  taken)  broiled,  and  he 
made  a  delicious  portion  of  our  meal,  I  assure  you. 
Shall  I  give  you  our  bill  of  fare  1  Listen,  ye  who  sit 
down  to  tables  loaded  with  the  delicacies  of  your 
market,  bought  with  money  at  an  expense  that  would 
frighten  our  worthy  host  —  listen  to  the  bill  of  fare 
which  the  mountain  land  furnishes  freely,  for  the  ask 
ing,  to  the  settler  and  his  guests.  Imprimis,  there  was 
our  fish,  which  would  have  graced  a  golden  dish,  but 
would  have  been  no  sweeter  from  it  than  from  the 
broad  deep  plate  on  which  it  lay.  Then  we  had  a 
roast  of  venison,  that  delicate  morsel  which  is  the  sad 
dle  proper,  and  a  stew  of  ditto,  which  was  beyond  all 
praise ;  a  rabbit,  cold ;  a  bear-steak,  carefully  broiled 
b^  the  fair  hands  of  Joe's  gentle  friend.  (Oh,  Joe,  you 
were  not  there,  and  we  missed  you  !)  There  is  but  one 
cut  of  a  bear  that  is  fit  for  a  civilized  being  to  eat,  and 
that  must  be  cooked  properly  to  be  any  thing  but  greasy 
and  oily,  and  fit  for  no  decent  man's  dog.  I  did  not  try 


126  LATER    YEARS. 

this,  but  P said  it  was  good,  and  is  a  judge.  So 

mtfch  of  meats.  Add  the  delicious  roast  potatoes,  white 
and  mealy,  the  New  England  Sunday  morning  dish 
(you  remember  the  dish  of  baked  beans  that  has  been 
all  night  in  the  oven  ?),  and  the  never-to-be-forgotten 
ash-loaf  (a  la  Block  Island),  and  can  you  doubt  an  in 
stant  when  I  tell  you  that,  after  dinner,  we  were  dis 
posed  to  let  the  pike  swim  on  unmolested  ? 

P was  discussing  the  comparative  merits  of  my 

cigars  and  his  own,  and  I,  little  heeding  him,  was  given 
to  my  usual  after-dinner  meditations,  when  a  man  en 
tered  to  tell  us  that  the  fish  were  biting  fast.  "We 
doubted  our  capabilities  for  skating  under  the  circum 
stances,  but  went  down  nevertheless,  and,  catching 
sight  of  the  bushes,  we  were  invigorated  instantly. 

P 's  skates  were  first  rigged,  and  he  dashed  at  the 

farthest  bush,  which  was  by  a  larger  hole  than  any 
other.  I  had  risen  to  my  feet,  and  was  starting  off, 

when  P •  reached  his  bush  ;  and,  oh  marvelous  !  he 

vanished  wholly  and  instantly  from  my  view.  His  im 
petus  (momentum,  we  used  to  be  told,  was  made  up  of 
weight  and  velocity,  and  P certainly  weighs  some 
thing,  especially  after  such  a  dinner) — his  impetus,  I 
was  saying,  was  too  great,  and  he  went,  feet  first,  into 
the  hole.  Fortunately,  he  caught  with  his  hands  on 
the  edge  as  he  went  down,  and  although  his  hold  slip 
ped,  still  he  thus  arrested  himself,  and  came  immedi 
ately  up  in  the  hole,  and  lifted  himself  out  just  as  I 
reached  him. 

"  How  are  they,  P ?     Did  you  say  they'd  bite 


PIKE    FISHIXG. 


127 


this  afternoon  ?  Been  to  see  about  the  stock  of  fish  on 
hand  ?" 

P did  not  deign  a  reply,  but  coolly  (as  you  may 

imagine)  and  imperturbably  seized  the  line,  and,  soak 
ed  as  he  was,  landed  a  magnificent  fish.  I  say  landed  ; 

perhaps  I  should  say  iced.     At  all  events,  P began 

to  ice,  and  before  he  reached  the  house  was  incased  in 
armor.  He  changed  his  clothes,  and  was  down  again 
within  fifteen  minutes,  and  we  took  a  fine  lot  of  fish 
before  dark.  When  it  began  to  be  dusk,  I  fastened  a 
newspaper  to  each  bush,  and  built  a  fire  by  it,  so  that, 
after  dark,  we  could  still  see  them  move.  The  pike, 
which  usually  sleep  quietly  at  night,  will  be  attracted 
by  a  fire,  and  we  continued  to  take  them  until  a  late 
hour  for  supper.  The  sky  was  filled  with  watchers 
when  we  left  the  lake,  and  sat  down  to  a  cup  of  unadul 
terated  Mocha,  thanks  to  the  same  fair  hand  aforenamed. 
Ah !  my  dear  Joseph,  it  would  have  done  you  good  to 
hear  the  songs  we  heard  last  night ! 


XVI. 

51  it  ti  i?  (0  r  ntf. 

New  York,  April  3d,  18—. 

I  HAD  been  sitting  half  an  hour  before  the  grate, 
with  my  feet  under  Nora,  who  invariably  lies  across 
them  if  I  place  them  on  the  rug,  and  I  had  been  think 
ing  more  of  a  perplexing  subject  in  the  course  of  busi 
ness  than  of  any  thing  else,  although,  to  say  the  truth, 
I  had  been  doing  as  little  thinking  as  was  consistent 
with  actual  existence,  for  I  was  very  tired,  when  the 
dog  sprang  to  the  door  with  a  short  yelp,  and  stood  gaz 
ing  up  at  the  latch  with  a  joyful  expression  on  her 
very  expressive  countenance.  The  next  instant  I  heard 
a  familiar  footfall  on  the  stair,  and  "Willis  entered. 

You  will  imagine  the  welcome  he  received  when  I 
tell  you  that  I  had  seen  him  but  once,  and  that  but  for 
a  moment,  since  last  fall. 

He  entered,  dusty  and  travel-worn,  yet  with  his  usu 
al  joyous  eye  and  ever-cheerful  countenance.  It  was  a 
question  which  of  us  three  was  gladdest,  and  when  we 
discussed  it  we  yielded  the  palm  to  Nora,  who  desert 
ed  my  feet  and  stood  for  fifteen  minutes  in  front  of  him, 
looking  steadily  in  his  face,  as  if  she  understood,  quite 
as  well  as  I,  every  word  he  uttered.  In  the  midst  of 
the  story  of  his  far  wanderings,  and  the  moving  inci 
dents  which  had  brought  him  swiftly  homeward,  I  was 


ANNIE    GRAY.  129 

obliged  to  leave  him  in  possession  of  my  room  and 
fire,  with  Nora  for  entertainer,  while  I  attended  a  busi 
ness  engagement,  which  detained  me  till  nearly  eleven 
o'clock. 

I  found  him  reading  when  I  returned,  and  Nora  was 
lying  with  her  nose  on  her  two  paws  outstretched  be 
fore  her,  gazing  into  the  fire.  Then  we  talked !  Do 
you  know  what  it  is  to  talk  1  It  is  not  the  use  of  the 
lips  and  tongue  alone.  I  know  that  is  the  common 
idea,  but  it  is  a  popular  fallacy.  True  conversation  is 
made  up  by  eyes  and  smiles,  and,  above  all,  by  hearts  ; 
and  oftentimes,  in  perfect  silence  of  the  lips,  two  per 
sons,  looking  in  each  other's  faces,  will  converse,  while 
the  simplest  utterance  of  the  voice  would  dissolve  a 
spell  and  close  the  communion.  We  talked  till  long 
after  midnight,  and  principally  of  old  times. 

Among  other  memories,  one  came  which,  by  your 
leave,  I  will  speak  of,  not  because  I  have  any  idea  that 
it  possesses  any  peculiar  interest,  for  it  does  not,  since 
it  is  a  simple  story  of  every-day  life,  but  because  I  feel 
in  a  humor  just  now  for  writing  it,  and,  to  amuse  my 
self,  I  propose  to  put  it  on  paper;  and  if,  after  that,  it 
appears  worth  sending  to  you,  you  shall  have  the  read 
ing  of  it. 

It  is  of  one  whom  I  knew  many  years  since,  youn 
ger  than  I  by  several  years,  and  as  pure  and  gentle  a 
girl  as  ever  forgot  earth  for  heaven ;  for  long  ere  this 
she  has  forgotten  earth. 

She  was  a  winsome  girl.  Never  was  one  more  so. 
Her  home  was  in  the  opening  of  a  gorge  of  the  mount- 
F2 


130  LATER    YEARS. 

ain,  where  the  ravine  spreads  out  into  a  valley,  not  very 
wide,  watered  by  the  stream  that  dashed  wildly  over 
the  rock  a  little  farther  up.  The  broad,  low  cottage  of 
the  widow  Gray  (as  I  will  call  her  by  your  leave,  al 
though  I  need  not  say  I  use  a  fictitious  name)  was  con 
cealed  from  view  in  the  daytime  by  a  dense  mass  of 
trees  and  shrubbery,  except  on  one  side,  where  the 
lawn  sloped  down  to  the  bank  of  the  creek.  Here 
were  usually  moored  two  or  three  light  skiffs,  which 
might  easily  be  forced  up  the  rapids,  quite  into  the 
mountain  gorge,  and  which  were  often  seen  bearing 
Annie  and  her  brother  down  the  current,  returning 
from  some  expedition  on  the  hills.  Had  you  passed 
along  the  road  which  crossed  the  mouth  of  the  ravine 
below  the  cottage,  you  would  not  have  suspected  that 
a  house  was  in  the  thicket  above  you,  unless  it  had 
been  in  the  evening,  and  you  saw  the  gleam  of  the 
light,  or  paused,  as  I  have  often  paused,  to  let  your 
horse  drink  at  the  edge  of  the  broad  creek,  and  then 
perhaps  you  might  have  heard  a  song  floating  out  of 
the  dark  wood,  and  if  you  rode  on  till  midnight  it  would 
linger  in  your  ears,  and  you  would  fancy  you  had  heard 
a  spirit. 

That  man  must  have  a  hard  heart  that  did  not  love 
Annie  Gray.  She  was  the  impersonation  of  loveliness. 
I  never  could  describe  a  face  or  form.  I  do  not  re 
member  friends  by  their  features,  and  I  have  not  the 
remotest  idea  of  the  color  of  their  eyes  or  hair  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten.  But  I  do  remember  her  with  distinct 
memory.  She  was  tall — that  is,  rather  above  the  me- 


ANNIE    GRAY.  131 

dium  height,  and  slender,  but  graceful,  and  beautifully 
shaped.  Every  motion  was  natural  and  unaffected, 
and  her  footstep  was  as  light  as  her  heart,  and  that 
had  not  a  heaviness.  Her  eye  was  dark,  quick  as  sun 
shine  in  its  changes,  and  full  of  unspoken  poetry.  You 
might  read  all  manner  of  beautiful  fancies  and  holy 
thoughts  there.  But  I  linger  too  long  on  the  descrip 
tion  of  her.  Her  brother  was  a  fine  fellow,  a  year  or 
two  older  than  she,  and  one  of  the  merriest  boys  in 
all  the  country.  He  loved  his  sister  too,  and,  as  I  have 
before  remarked,  love  has  a  reflective  force  which 
makes  the  lover  lovely. 

I  am  completely  lost  in  a  whirlwind  of  memories 
now  that  I  return  to  those  days  and  scenes.  There 
were  a  thousand  incidents  of  my  early  life  that  are 
brought  vividly  before  me  the  moment  I  recall  the  old 
cottage  in  the  glen  and  its  beloved  inmates.  How 
startlingly  does  the  trite  remark  that  "  we  live  in  a 
changing  world"  recur  to  our  thoughts  every  day  !  In 
fact,  it  can  not  become  trite.  The  very  stars  that  we 
worship  as  changeless  sometimes  fall,  and  the  eyes 
that  we  worship  with  more  of  devotion  than  the  stars 
grow  dim,  and  the  hearts  that  we  fancy  immutable 
change  mournfully !  There  is  nothing  immutable  but 
God.  It  is  the  attribute  of  Deity,  which  includes  all 
others,  and  to  which  mortals  do  homage  because  they 
can  not  comprehend  it. 

A  score  of  years  has  removed  that  cottage  from  the 
face  of  the  earth,  and  its  inhabitants,  having  separated 
here,  have  met  again  up  yonder !  One  by  one,  with 


132  LATER    YEARS. 

their  lips  murmuring  hymns  and  prayers,  and  their 
white  hands  folded  together,  the  friends  of  my  younger 
days  have  passed  away,  and  but  few  remain  of  all  that 
company. 

Annie  Gray  died  thus.  One  glorious  summer  even 
ing,  when  the  moon  was  at  its  full,  she  and  Ned  had 
been  strolling  up  the  mountain  side,  and,  coming  down 
together,  had  nearly  reached  their  boat  as  twilight 
gathered  around  them.  Loth  to  return  from  the  forest, 
she  bade  Ned  push  the  little  skiff  almost  under  the 
fall,  and  standing  on  a  rock  in  the  very  middle  of  the 
water,  she  shook  her  tiny  fist  at  the  cataract,  and  held 
a  mock  conversation  with  it. 

Returning  myself  from  a  day's  shooting  on  the  mount 
ains,  I  saw  her  on  her  pedestal  before  I  was  seen,  and, 
throwing  myself  down  on  the  ground,  watched  her 
with  admiring  eyes.  Undine  herself  was  not  more 
beautiful.  She  talked  to  the  water  as  to  an  old  famil 
iar  friend;  and,  in  truth,  if  there  be  sprites  and  ouphes, 
they  must  have  loved  her.  Her  voice  was  clearer  than 
that  of  the  stream,  and  when  she  laughed,  as  she  at 
length  did  at  some  odd  reply  she  imagined  the  fall  to 
make,  the  old  arches  of  the  forest  and  the  ravine  gave 
back  a  musical  echo,  so  that  I  started  to  my  feet,  and 
listened  to  it  as  to  the  voices  of  fairies  indeed.  But  a 
cry  of  half  terror  and  half  laughter  startled  me,  and, 
springing  down  the  bank,  I  saw  her  for  a  single  in 
stant  as  she  disappeared  in  the  water.  Her  footing  had 
proved  insecure,  and  she  slipped  from  the  rock  into  the 
embrace  of  the  stream  she  loved. 


ANNIE    GRAY.  133 

It  was  the  work  of  an  instant  to  spring  out  to  her, 
and  swim  but  a  few  strokes  to  the  shore,  and  she  was 
not  a  particle  frightened  by  the  occurrence  ;  on  the  con 
trary,  the  woods  rang  with  her  uncontrollable  laughter 
as  soon  as  she  was  on  the  shore. 

I  walked  in  that  same  forest  two  years  ago,  and  heard 
again  the  music  of  that  ringing  laughter  through  the 
long  halls  of  time,  made  scarcely  more  melodious  by 
its  passage  through  the  corridors  of  years ! 

Placing  her  in  the  boat,  and  taking  the  oars  from 
Ned,  I  soon  delivered  them  safely  at  the  cottage,  and 
bade  them  good-night.  The  next  day  Annie  had  a 
raging  fever,  and  was  delirious  for  ten  days.  I  saw 
her  several  times,  but  she  did  not  recognize  me,  albeit 
I  was  a  near  relative,  and  had  known  her  from  her 
birth.  There  was  one  voice  that  she  recognized,  and 
one  face  that  she  looked  up  to  with  longing  love.  It 

was  the  face  of  Phil  R ,  who  had  won  her  pure 

young  heart.  But  I  will  not  intrude  on  the  sacred 
memory  of  that  love,  which  is  the  property  of  but  few 
now  living.  Phil  is  dead  too.  On  the  tenth  day  of 
her  sickness  she  slept  heavily,  and  awoke  in  her  right 
mind.  But,  alas  for  the  dear  ones  around  her  !  it  was 
but  too  evident  she  was  near  to  heaven.  Her  eye  was 
clear  and  full  of  joy,  as  if  she  had  been,  as  I  doubt  not 
she  had,  with  angels. 

Old  Mr.  Winter,  the  clergyman  who  had  baptized  us 
all,  and  had  buried  our  fathers,  and  had  loved  us  faith 
fully  from  the  days  of  our  first  lisping,  stood  by  her  bed, 
and  she  smiled  joyfully  as  she  saw  him. 


134  LATER    YEARS. 

"  Ah !  Mr.  Winter,  I  used  to  wonder  whether  I  should 
die  with  you  all  around  me,  and  this  is  just  exactly  as 
I  wished  it.  It  seems  strange,  too,  that  I  arn  dying.  I. 
don't  exactly  believe  it  yet.  Phil,  am  I  dying  ?" 

"  God  forbid,  Annie." 

"  Ah !  that  tone,  Phil !  You  mean  to  say  God  only 
can  save  me,  for  all  hope  of  man  is  gone.  Don't  grieve, 
though,  don't  grieve.  Why,  it  isn't  hard  to  die.  I  love 
the  dear  earth  well  enough  to  stay  here,  and  the  flow 
ers  and  birds,  and  the  brook,  and  the  old  seat  down  on 
the  bank  of  the  stream  ;  but  I  don't  feel  so  very  sorrow 
ful  to  leave  them  as  I  used  to  think  I  would.  And  I 
love  mother,  and  Ned,  and  Mr.  Winter,  and — and — and 
you,  Phil !"  and  here  her  voice,  which  had  been  low 
but  cheerful,  suddenly  trembled,  and  she  was  silent. 
At  length  she  continued  in  a  renewed  tone  of  cheer 
fulness,  "  Phil,  go  sometimes  and  sit  on  the  old  seat 
down  there  by  the  stream,  and  put  your  arm  along  the 
back  of  it,  and  look  up  ;  and  if  you  don't  feel  my  kiss, 
it  will  be  because  angels'  kisses  can't  be  felt ;  for  if 
God  lets  me,  I'll  come  there,  and  take  the  seat  which  I 
have  so  often  sat  in,  and  lay  my  head  on  your  shoulder. 
Mr.  Winter,  I'm  going  to  heaven  at  last  in  advance  of 
you.  I  started  a  long  way  behind,  but  I  shall  be  there 
first,  after  all." 

The  good  old  man  to  whom  the  last  part  of  her  sen 
tence  was  addressed  sobbed  aloud  ;  but  at  length,  re 
covering  his  composure,  he  knelt  at  the  side  of  her  bed, 
and  his  long  white  locks  fell  over  the  counterpane  as 
he  commenced  a  prayer  of  earnestness.  I  stood  still  at 


ANNIE    GRAY.  135 

the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  watched  the  face  of  our  angel 
girl.  As  he  spoke  of  heaven,  her  eye  lighted,  and  as 
he  begged  God  to  spare  her  to  us  yet  a  little  longer,  I 
saw  her  gaze  seek  where  Phil  was  kneeling,  with  his 
face  buried  in  the  pillow  which  lay  at  the  side  of  the 
bed.  Then  I  saw  her  hand  steal  along  until  it  reached 
his  head,  and  her  tiny  fingers  were  among  his  thick 
locks  of  hair,  and  the  next  moment  her  hand  was  in 
his,  and  he  rose,  and,  sitting  by  her  side,  gazed  into  her 
face  with  unutterable  love  ;  and  as  the  sublime  words 
of  hope  escaped  from  the  lips  of  the  clergyman,  I  saw 
hers  move,  as  if  to  say,  "  Kiss  me,  Phil ;"  and  he  stoop 
ed  down  to  her,  and,  with  her  arm  around  his  neck,  and 
that  last  loving  kiss  upon  her  lips,  she  went  forth  by 
the  unknown  path  that  all  must  tread. 

But  she  went  not  forth  feebly  nor  alone.  Strong  in 
her  simple  faith,  and  leaning  confidently  on  her  Savior, 
she  who  was  fairest  of  our  children  here  has  long  ago 
become,  I  can  not  doubt,  one  of  the  fairest  of  God's  chil 
dren  there. 

Peace  be  with  her  !  On  her  grave  violets  bloom,  and 
I  have  seen  children  who  had  wandered  over  the  hills 
in  search  of  flowers  all  day  long  in  vain,  refuse  to  pluck 
those  which  bloomed  holily  over  all  that  was  earthly 
of  Annie  Gray.  Peace  be  with  her !  In  that  sunny 
land,  whereof  I  dream  in  summer  Sabbath-morning 
dreams,  I  trust  one  day  to  meet  her.  There  the  voice 
that  was  low  and  plaintive  as  the  night-wind  here  has 
renewed  its  tones  in  thrilling  melody.  There  the  last 
sound  of  sorrowful  discord  is  hushed,  for  as  she  left  us 


136  LATER    YEARS. 

those  sounds  died  away,  faintly,  scarce  heard,  then  gone 
forever!  and  she  did  not  hear  them  when  she  came 
back,  as  she  did  at  times,  to  keep  the  tryst  with  Phil. 
She  heard  then  no  sounds  but  the  beatings  of  his  heart. 

One  summer  morning,  ten  years  afterward,  she  called 
him  suddenly,  and  his  spirit  sprang  forth  at  the  call. 
The  bonds  of  earth  were  broken !  None  knew  where 
of  he  died. 

I  am  growing  old.  Stout  of  heart  and  strong  of  limb 
as  I  yet  am,  I  nevertheless  have  seen  the  moss  on  the 
monuments  of  those  I  loved,  and  the  epitaphs  of  my 
"  old  familiar  friends"  are  scarcely  legible  !  And  is  it 
strange  that  I  find  it  difficult  to  identify  the  boy,  whose 
life  was  so  full  of  free,  light-hearted  joyousness  among 
the  mountains,  with  the  man  who  must  suffer  for  this 
hour's  swift  writing  for  mere  pleasure  by  close  applica 
tion  during  half  the  night  to  perplexing  papers  ? 


XVII. 


New  York,  April  6th,  18—. 

SOME  time  ago,  I  passed  three  years  in  a  retired 
country  village,  where  I  knew  no  one  personally 
out  of  the  family  in  which  I  boarded. 

What  my  reasons  were  for  leading  a  life  of  such  per 
fect  calm  as  those  three  years  proved  themselves  to 
be,  it  is  not  now  necessary  to  say  ;  it  is  enough  for  the 
purposes  of  my  story  to  say  that  I  selected  a  village 
where  I  was  wholly  unknown,  and  that  I  never  enter 
ed  a  house  within  its  bounds  during  my  term  of  retire 
ment,  except,  as  I  before  remarked,  the  one  in  which 
I  resided. 

Surrounded  with  books,  and  music,  and  paintings, 
and  the  luxuries  of  that  sort  which  make  the  most  quiet 
part  of  the  earth  to  appear  thronged  with  visitors,  I 
was  happy,  if  happiness  is  to  be  found  on  earth. 

There  were  gossips  in  the  village,  who,  as  I  after 
ward  learned,  ascribed  my  long  stay  to  my  devotion  to 
one  who  was  certainly  worthy  of  all  worship,  and  whose 
home,  at  a  few  miles'  distance,  was  the  abode  of  beau 
ty  and  luxury.  But  they  erred,  and  thereby  hangs  a 
tale  that  I  have  not  now  time  or  inclination  to  tell  ; 
suffice  it  to  say,  my  word  is  good  ;  and  though  my  horse 


138  LATER    YEARS. 

did  learn  the  long  avenue  well  by  day  and  by  night, 
almost  daily  passing  through  it  for  years,  nevertheless, 
he  did  not  bear  a  lover  to  the  wooing.  If  need  be,  you 

would  add  your  word  to  this,  dear ,  whose  youngest 

son  last  night  fell  asleep  on  my  lap  while  we  talked  of 
the  good  days  of  old. 

I  have  said  that  I  was  surrounded  with  books,  and 
in  those  I  found  my  best  companionship,  except  when 

I  might  have  a  gallop  over  the  mountain  with , 

whose  grasp  on  her  rein  was  fearless,  and  who  some 
times,  during  the  summer  months,  accepted  my  escort 
for  a  ride,  or  when  I  was  a  guest  at  her  father's  house, 
where,  to  say  truth,  I  found  myself  quite  often,  and,  I 
flattered  myself,  welcome. 

One  summer  morning  I  was  seated  at  my  window, 
reading  and  looking  out  once  in  a  while  at  the  heavy  fo 
liage  of  the  maple  that  shaded  the  house,  when  I  was 
interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  my  servant,  announcing 
a  visitor. 

The  name  was  strange  to  me,  and  I  looked  up  inquir 
ingly  at  the  gentleman,  who  caught  me  at  rather  an  un 
seasonable  hour  in  morning-gown  and  slippers.  He 
was  tall  and  pale,  with  a  striking  breadth  of  forehead, 
and,  withal,  having  a  keen,  black  eye,  and  a  face  that 
attracted  your  highest  admiration.  It  was  the  face  of 
a  student  and  a  thoughtful  man,  but  now  overhung 
with  a  deep  melancholy.  His  voice  trembled  as  he 
spoke,  but  became  clear  and  very  distinct,  and  I  thought 
musical,  as  he  continued : 

"  My  name  is  W— ,  as  you  have  heard,  and  it  is 


A    FAMILY    HISTORY.  139 

probably  unknown  to  you.  In  my  father's  younger  days, 
his  father  and  your  grandfather  were  devoted  friends. 
They  fought  together  in  the  Revolution,  and  were  bound 
to  each  other  by  the  strongest  ties  of  intimacy.  Our 
family  residence  is  ten  miles  from  here,  but  we  have 
known  of  your  residence,  and  long  intended  to  renew 
the  old  acquaintance,  if  possible,  through  you,  but  no  op 
portunity  has  presented.  My  father  is  now  desirous  of 
asking  an  obligation  from  you.  My  sister  died  yester 
day.  She  will  be  buried  to-morrow ;  will  you  attend 
her  funeral  as  a  bearer?" 

I  readily  consented,  and,  declining  his  offer  to  send  a 

carriage  for  me,  rode  across  the  country  to  Mr.  W 's 

place.  It  was  a  fine  old  mansion  among  the  trees,  and 
I  had  often  passed  near  it  without  seeing  it.  The  scene 
presented  as  I  approached  was  novel  and  beautiful.  In 
the  grove  before  the  house  was  gathered  a  large  con 
course  of  people,  and  I  heard  the  voice  of  prayer  going 
up  to  the  sky  through  the  branches  of  lordly  trees.  On 
approaching  nearer,  I  saw  the  coffin  standing  on  the 
long  piazza,  and  an  old  servant  at  its  head,  watching  the 
placid  features  of  the  sleeping  daughter  of  the  house. 

In  the  twilight  of  that  summer  day,  as  the  moon,  just 
past  its  full,  was  rising  in  the  east,  and  the  evening  star 
was  looking  peacefully  down  on  us,  we  entered  the 
burial-ground,  and,  removing  the  vault-stone,  passed 
down  the  damp  steps,  and  left  the  gentle  girl  to  sleep 
with  her  mother  and  her  noble  fathers. 

As  I  rode  home  over  the  hills  that  evening,  I  was  in 
communion  with  the  days  of  yore,  and  fancied  that  my 


140  LATER    YEARS. 

grandfather,  whom  I  never  knew,  blessed  me  for  the 
attention  I  had  given  to  the  remains  of  the  descendant 
of  one  he  loved.  But  in  my  room,  and  in  the  company 
of  my  books,  I  confess  I  forgot  the  past  entirely,  and  a 
year  had  gone  by  before  I  was  reminded  of  my  friends, 
the  W s. 

It  was  just  such  another  summer  morning,  and  I  was 
seated  almost  exactly  as  before,  when  my  servant  again 
announced  Mr.  W . 

Starting  up  in  some  surprise,  and,  indeed,  with  not  a 
little  embarrassment,  I  was  concocting  some  sort  of 
apology  for  my  neglect,  when  I  saw,  by  that  same  mel 
ancholy  countenance,  that  he  desired  none  of  the  for 
malities  of  cold  politeness.  A  sad  smile  passed  over 
his  finely-chiseled  features  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  have  come  on  a  sad  errand,  Mr.  Phillips,  a  second 
time.  My  only  remaining  sister  died  last  night.  Is  it 
too  much  to  ask  your  company  again  in  our  affliction  ?" 

Again  I  rode  across  to  the  old  mansion,  and  again 
the  same  scene  was  presented  as  before.  I  could  have 
imagined  the  year  rolled  back,  only  there  was  one  face- 
missing  that  I  had  seen  among  the  mourners.  That 
face,  that  then  was  sad  and  tearful,  now  was  smiling 
joyously,  and  they  were  weeping  for  her !  Strange  that 
we  weep  so  for  the  blessed  dead  who  smile  on  us  in 
their  repose !  strange  that  we  mourn  for  those  that 
mourn  no  more ! 

There  were  eyes  that  had  been  dimmed  by  countless 
tears,  and  lips  that  had  quivered  with  many  agonies. 
The  lids  had  fallen  calmly  over  those  eyes,  and  the 


A    FAMILY    HISTORY.  141 

hush  of  peace  was  on  those  lips,  yet  all  around  were 
weeping  as  if  hopelessly. 

Is  it  not  strange  that  men  shudder  so,  and  shrink 
from  death,  which  is  their  only  rest  ?  Is  it  not  marvel 
ous  that  they  do  not  make  ready  for  the  deep  sleep  with 
joy fulness  ? 

The  day  was  not  yet  gone  as  we  left  that  fair  sleeper 
by  her  sister.  The  red  beams  of  the  departing  sun 
flooded  the  entrance  to  the  vault,  and  one  small  but 
brilliant  beam  quite  entered  it.  But,  sunshine  or  dark 
ness,  it  mattered  not  to  the  sleepers  there. 

Another  year  passed,  and  I  was  still  in  my  village 
retirement.  Another  summer  evening  found  me  by  the 

side  of  my  friend,  Miss  ,  enjoying  the  twilight,  as 

our  reins  lay  loosely  on  the  necks  of  our  horses.  Slow 
ly  sauntering  down  a  hill,  we  met  a  rider  who  was 
moving  as  slowly  as  we,  but  who,  on  meeting  us,  reined 
up  his  black  horse,  and  addressed  me : 

"  Mr.  Phillips  ?" 

"  That  is  my  name." 

"  Mine  is .  I  was  riding  over  to  T to  see 

you.  Mr.  James  W died  yesterday,  and  his  father 

desired  to  have  you  present  at  his  funeral." 

I  went.  The  brother  had  sought  his  sisters.  Again 
the  vault-stone  was  removed,  and  the  sunbeams  again 
fell  on  the  steps,  and  stole  into  the  damp  chamber 
where  death  had  kept  silent  reign  a  year.  Again  our 
footfalls  disturbed  the  peace  of  the  vault,  and  again  we 
closed  it,  and  the  world  rolled  on. 

I  remember  that,  while  within  the  vault,  I  forgot  the 


142 


LATER    YEARS. 


progress  of  time.  I  seemed  to  be  in  the  presence  of 
the  past  as  well  as  the  future,  and  when  I  came  out, 
appeared  to  re-enter  the  world  after  an  absence  from 
it. 

The  next  week  I  left  T ,  and  have  never  been 

there  since  that  day.    Letters  from  my  friend,  Miss , 

from  time  to  time,  informed  me  of  the  occurrences  in 
the  village  and  country  around,  of  the  gossip  occasion 
ed  by  my  departure  (which  was  as  sudden  as  my  ad 
vent),  and  frequently  of  items  of  news  which  interested 
me.  In  one  letter  was  a  passage  like  the  following: 

"  You  remember  that  gentleman  whom  we  met  one 
evening  while  riding,  who  asked  you  to  attend  young 

Mr.  W 's  funeral  ?     He  is  dead.     It  now  appears 

that  he  was  engaged  to  the  younger  daughter.  God 
grant  he  has  met  her." 

Another  letter,  a  month  afterward,  contained  this 
paragraph  : 

"  Old  Mr.  W sleeps  with  his  children.     I  think 

he  sleeps  well,  for  his  life  has  been  wearisome,  and  he 
needed  rest.  The  family,  I  am  told,  is  extinct,  except 
in  the  person  of  one  son,  who  is  a  wanderer,  no  one 
knows  where." 

Many  years  after  the  events  which  I  have  thus  re 
lated,  I  met  a  gentleman  who  had  returned  from  a  tour 
in  Europe.  I  related  the  story  to  him  in  the  course  of 
conversation,  and  he  took  a  note-book  from  his  pocket, 
and  read  me  the  following  lines : 

"  Copy  of  an  inscription  found  on  a  stone  by  the  shore 
of  the  Mediterranean,  near :  Edward  W was 


A   FAMILY    HISTORY.  143 

buried  here  by  his  fellow-sailors  of  the  American  brig 
,  May  4th,  18—." 

"  It  was  a  rude  stone  and  rudely  carved,"  continued 
my  informant,  "  but  I  thought  it  worth  copying,  for  it 
was  a  strange  place  to  find  a  countryman  sleeping." 

"  So,"  thought  I,  "  they  may,  perhaps,  be  together 
again!" 

Dust  to  dust !  I  never  have  felt  so  forcibly  at  any 
other  time  the  truth  that  we  must  return  to  the  earth 
from  which  we  sprang,  as  I  have  in  reflecting  on  the 
history  of  that  family. 

And  when  I  remember  that  old  man  in  his  desola 
tion,  how  can  I  be  lonely  ?  Lonely  !  There  is  no  such 
thing  on  earth,  if  we  but  look  on  things  rightly. 

Man  treads  a  rugged  path,  but  I  thank  God  that  there 
is  a  moral  compensation  (very  like  some  of  those  phys 
ical  ones  which  Paley  talks  of)  which  so  provides  that, 
however  gigantic  may  be  the  strides  man  makes,  he 
never  ceases  to  hear  the  music  of  tiny  footfalls  at  his 
side,  keeping  even  pace  with  him,  and  which  gives 
strength  to  those  gentle  ones  who  walk  with  us,  to  keep 
forever  close  beside  us,  up  mountain  sides  or  across 
holy  plains,  or  in  gloom,  or  in  light,  even  to  the  very 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  death.  Nay,  farther  on !  For 
if  our  love  die  with  our  clay,  and  be  buried  with  our 
dust,  wherefore,  oh !  wherefore  made  he  us  immortal  ? 
I  rest  in  the  perfect  assurance  that  human  love  is  so 
high,  so  strong,  so  heavenly,  that  over  it  Death  has  no 
triumph. 


XVIII. 


New  York,  November,  18  —  . 

I  TAKE  advantage  of  a  day  of  leisure  (which  leisure 
is  taken  by  the  doctor's  directions,  and  not  of  my 
own  inclination)  to  write  for  an  hour  or  two.  If  my 
most  excellent  friend,  the  aforenamed  guardian  of  my 
physical  health,  should  enter  before  I  have  concluded 
my  letter,  I  may  not  hope  to  finish  it  to-day,  for  he  is  as 
jealous  of  my  writing  as  a  lover  of  his  mistress.  In 
truth,  he  is  right.  My  body  is  a  very  strong  one,  and 
my  constitution  has  been  iron,  but  it  is  wearing  out 
somewhat  with  exposures  ;  and  my  mental  labor,  which 
has  been  of  almost  incredible  severity  and  pain  of  late, 
has  aided  to  shake  my  usually  firm  health. 

I  find  myself  growing  peevish  and  discontented  daily. 
Even  this  cup  of  nectar,  the  veritable  Lachryma  Christi, 
from  the  sunny  hill-side  of  the  Abbey  of  Christ's  tear, 
this  drop  of  golden  wine,  has  a  bitter  taste,  and  I  have 
not  sufficient  inclination  to  make  it  pleasant  to  drink  it. 
Well,  well  ;  I  must  content  myself  to  grow  old,  even 
while  in  the  strength  of  years.  I  have  lived  consider 
ably  longer  than  most  men  of  my  age  (counting  time  in 
"  thoughts,  and  not  in  figures  on  a  dial"),  and  am  con 
tent. 


BLUE   FISH.  145 

Really  this  chair  is  comfortable,  and  this  fire  deli- 
ciously  warm,  and  the  bunch  of  tuberoses  on  the  table 
is  very  fragrant,  and  the  painting  on  the  wall  before 
me  is  the  very  painting  of  all  in  my  collection,  or  in  the 
world,  I  love  most  to  look  on  ;  for  it  is  a  Flora,  with  thy 

heavenly  expression  of  eyes,  my ;  and,  after  all, 

now  that  I  begin  to  be  in  better  humor  with  the  world 
and  with  myself,  I  find  this  tear-drop  as  pure  as  ever 
vintage  of  the  sunny  South  was,  and  why  should  I  not 
be  content  ?  Well,  I  am  so.  "Who  could  be  otherwise  ? 
And  if  it  were  not  for  an  intimation  I  received  this 
morning  that  I  must  be  ready  to-morrow  to  go  on  a 
journey,  I  should  be  without  a  care.  One  shivers  at 
the  very  thought  of  those  Pennsylvania  mountains  in 
November.  Think  of  it !  And  yet  I  must  look  at  some 
thousand  acres  of  land  supposed  to  have  an  existence 
and  location  in  the  western  part  of  Wayne  county,  in 
the  Keystone  State,  and,  nolens  volens,  I  go. 

I  have  the  comfort  of  knowing  that  I  may  carry  my 
rifle  on  my  shoulder  while  looking,  and  if  a  stray  buck 
crosses  my  path,  I  may  even  shoot  him.  We  shall 
see.  Meantime — that  is,  for  this  afternoon — I  have  but 
to  make  myself  easy  here.  The  curtains  are  drawn  so 
as  to  mellow  the  light  of  the  sun,  which  falls  broad  on 
the  window,  and  my  Flora  blesses  me  in  my  eyes  with 
her  joyous  smile.  Is  not  a  beautiful  scene  a  blessing 
to  the  eyes  ? 

I  have  been  strongly  urged  by  some  friends  to  sketch 
my  experience  in  the  various  kinds  of  fishing  which 
form  the  autumnal  sport  on  our  northern  waters.  I  had 
G 


146  LATER    YEARS. 

some  hesitation  in  doing  so,  from  this  fact  mainly,  that 
my  views  of  some  things  differ  so  much  from  the  views 
of  those  who  have  written  and  published  most  on  these 
sports,  that  I  am  rather  disinclined  to  advance  them, 
lest  I  seem  impertinent.  I  am  not  a  theoretical  sports 
man,  but  a  very  plain  practical  one,  and  in  my  day  have 
had  some  experience  too.  I  am  somewhat  noted  among 
my  friends  as  a  lucky  fisherman,  and  I  say  this  for  the 
sake  of  showing  that,  if  not  theoretical,  I  am  apt  to  be, 
what  is  better,  successful.  Thus  much  by  way  of  pref 
ace. 

I  know  no  sport  which  excels  taking  blue  fish.  The 
habits  of  this  fish  are  singular.  About  forty  years  ago 
they  disappeared  entirely  from  our  coast,  and  none  were 
seen  again  until  about  the  year  1838.  The  first  fish 
which  I  took,  shortly  after  that,  were  small,  weighing 
scarcely  a  pound  each.  They  have  since  increased  in 
size  and  quantity  annually,  until  it  has  become  a  serious 
question  whether  they  will  not  drive  all  other  fish  from 
their  feeding-grounds.  They  are  very  fierce  and  vora 
cious,  devouring  all  kinds  of  fish,  and  apparently  never 
satisfied.  I  selected  six  fine  fellows  last  summer  from 
a  lot  I  had  taken.  They  weighed  about  eight  pounds 
apiece,  and  on  cleaning  them  I  found  in  each  of  them 
more  than  three  quarters  of  a  pound,  and  in  one  more 
than  a  pound,  of  fragments  of  scups  (porgies),  and  yet, 
stuffed  and  crammed  as  they  were,  they  had  been  fool 
ish  enough  to  seize  on  my  bone  bait  and  hook  them 
selves. 

They  are  found  along  the  coast  from  Maine  to  Vir- 


BLUE    FISH.  147 

ginia,  but  the  large  ones  congregate  in  the  open  waters 
between  Montauk  and  Nantucket.  Stonington  is  the 
best  port  from  which  to  sail  for  them,  and  not  infre 
quently  (as  last  summer)  many  of  the  largest  are  taken 
close  to  the  breakwater,  and,  indeed,  quite  up  in  Wamp- 
hassak  Cove.  I  have  seldom  known  large  blue  fish  to 
be  taken  west  or  south  of  Montauk,  or  north  or  east  of 
Nantucket.  Those  weighing  four  or  five  pounds  are 
called  large  in  all  waters  but  these. 

Of  blue  fish  bait  little  need  be  said.  They  bite  at 
any  thing  which  moves  rapidly  through  the  water. 
Their  principal  food  is  the  small  and  beautifully  trans 
lucent  bait  fish,  but  they  sometimes  cut  up  schools  of 
moss-bunkers  and  porgies,  and  destroy  quantities  of 
them.  For  eastern  waters  the  bone  bait  is  of  course 
the  best.  I  like  the  block  tin  well,  but  they  are  not 
long  enough  for  large  fish,  and  it  is  extremely  difficult 
to  unhook  them  without  being  injured  by  the  teeth  of 
the  fish.  I  lost  a  piece  from  the  end  of  my  thumb  thus. 
Long  after  a  fish  is  on  deck,  if  you  point  your  finger  at 
him  he  will  jump  at  it  like  a  dog.  The  tin  is  best  at 
Shrewsbury  ;  but  at  Stonington  you  will  require  a  bone 
not  less  than  six  inches  long  (better  seven),  and  the 
hook  should  have  a  curve  two  inches  across,  at  the  least, 
Small  hooks  are  the  cause  of  losing  many  fish.  Let 
the  bone  be  turned  round  and  smooth,  bored  from  end 
to  end,  the  hook  being  made  fast  in  at  one  end,  and  the 
line  passed  through.  Let  your  line  be  very  strong. 
You  may  strike  a  large  bass,  and  if  you  are  so  fortunate, 
your  line  must  be  a  stout  one.  I  think  many  blue  fish 


148  LATER    YEARS. 

lines  and  baits  are  carried  away  by  large  bass.  An 
other  advantage  gained  by  a  large  line  is,  that  your  fin 
gers  are  less  cut.  You  must  expect,  however,  to  suffer 
in  this  way  till  your  hands  are  hardened.  The  scars 
of  old  wounds  are  visible  all  over  my  fingers  and  hands. 

The  first  blue  fish  which  I  took  this  summer  were 
taken  on  a  fine  summer  day,  off  Napatree,  two  miles 

from  Stonington.  Captain and  myself  were  out 

in  a  small  open  boat  carrying  a  spritsail.  We  had 
tried  all  the  water,  and  passed  Napatree  twice,  but  had 
taken  only  half  a  dozen  fish,  when  we  saw  a  small  boat 
standing  off  and  on  in  a  way  which  led  us  to  suppose 
her  crew  had  found  a  school  of  fish.  "We  ran  down  and 
struck  on  them  within  jumping  distance  of  the  large 
rock.  They  were  lying  among  the  breakers  ;  outside 
there  were  none.  So  we  would  run  into  the  very  edge 
of  the  surf,  go  about  within  two  rods  of  the  rocks,  throw 
our  lines  into  the  breakers,  and,  coming  out,  invariably 
hook  two  fish ;  throw  again,  and  hook  two  more ;  and 
come  about  again  at  a  few  rods'  distance  to  repeat  the 
same  maneuver.  The  sport  was  exciting,  for  the  day 
was  fine,  the  surf  heavy,  and  the  roar  deafening,  and 
there  was  something  very  rousing  and  inspiriting  in  the 
way  of  handling  our  little  craft.  It  was  rather  close 
approximation  to  the  rocks  sometimes,  when  she  didn't 
go  about  as  swiftly  as  she  should.  I  think  we  took 
fifty-one  fish  within  three  quarters  of  an  hour. 

The  sport  continued  good  during  most  of  the  sum 
mer  and  early  part  of  the  fall.  I  can  not,  however, 
omit  relating  the  success  of  one  day's  expedition. 


BLUE   FISH.  149 

We  had  intended  to  pass  some  days  on  Block  Island, 
and  our  plans  were  made  for  Monday  morning,  but, 

owing  to  the  unexpected  engagements  of  Captain , 

we  had  given  up  the  idea.  But  Monday  morning  was 
so  clear,  and  the  wind  so  fresh  from  the  southwest,  that 
I  walked  out  and  met  the  gentlemen  who  were  to  com 
pose  the  party,  and  by  ten  o'clock  we  had  provisioned 
the  boat,  and  were  off  at  precisely  half  past  ten  from 
Bath  House  bridge.  It  was  about  ten  o'clock  when  we 
ate  lunch,  and  were  discussing  it  still  when  we  ran  up 
close  to  the  Light-house  on  Block  Island.  "  Here  goes," 
I  exclaimed,  "  for  the  first  fish,"  and  threw  over  my 
line.  It  had  not  fairly  gained  way  through  the  water 
behind  the  boat,  when  I  hooked  a  fine  fish  and  brought 

him  in,  followed  closely  by  one  on  the  line  of  Mr.  A . 

Five  lines  were  over  astern  in  a  moment,  and  five  fish 
in  the  boat  as  swiftly  as  they  could  be  drawn  in.  From 
this  moment  the  fish  struck  the  baits  the  instant  they 
fell  into  the  water  or  gained  way,  but  the  lines  became 

foul,  and  Mr. "A proposed  that  two  of  us  should 

leave.  Accordingly,  we  threw  our  lines  and  baits  into 
the  small  boat  which  lay  on  deck,  and,  lifting  it  over  the 
side,  sprang  into  it  and  drifted  in  shore. 

"We  were  now  about  forty  rods  to  the  southward  of 
the  north  point  of  the  island,  and  nearly  abreast  of  the 
Light-house.  The  wind  was  fresh  from  the  southwest, 
and  the  tide  running  strong  flood,  but  we  were  in  the 
eddy  under  the  west  side  of  the  island.  We  stood  up, 
and  threw  and  hauled.  It  was  difficult  to  keep  our  bal 
ance,  the  boat  being  small,  and  the  sea  running  irreg- 


150  LATER    YEARS. 

ularly.  It  was  especially  difficult,  when  we  had  fill 
ed  the  bottom  of  the  boat  with  fish,  and  were  obliged 
to  stand  across  her  thwarts.  We  drifted  in  shore,  and 
continued  to  take  fish  as  rapidly  as  we  could  work  our 
lines,  casting  not  more  than  six  fathoms,  and  hauling 
in  instantly.  I  saw,  almost  invariably,  from  ten  to 
twenty  large  fish  following  my  hook,  leaping  over  one 
another  in  their  haste  to  be  hooked.  When  we  reach 
ed  the  outer  edge  of  the  breakers,  we  pulled  out  a  few 
strokes  of  the  oars  and  drifted  again.  Between  the 
wind  and  tide,  we  went  slowly  to  the  northward,  and 
at  length  went  out  by  the  bar.  I  never  have  seen 
such  a  quantity  of  blue  fish  as  were  in  the  water  that 
day.  Looking  over  the  side  of  the  boat,  we  could  see 
thousands  of  them  shooting  through  the  water,  and 
they  would  follow  the  fish  that  was  hooked  close  up 
to  the  gunwale.  Once,  when  I  had  hooked  a  large  fel 
low,  I  lost  my  balance  on  a  sudden  lurch,  and  fell  into 
the  bottom  of  the  boat,  breaking  my  thumb  nail  below 
the  quick  in  a  way  not  a  little  painful.  We  filled  our 
boat  once,  and  made  a  signal  for  the  large  boat,  which 
stood  down  to  us,  and  relieved  us  of  our  cargo.  We 
then  filled  her  again.  Meantime  they  were  catching 
fish  rapidly  in  the  large  boat,  and  we  boarded  her  at 
four  o'clock,  tired  out.  My  back  was  lame  for  a  week 

afterward.     Mr. threw  himself  down  on  deck,  and 

declared  that  he  was  used  up.  We  voted  unanimously 
to  make  sail  for  home,  and,  had  the  wind  held  good,  we 
should  have  been  in  before  dark.  As  it  was,  the  wind 
lulled,  and  we  passed  Watch  Hill  moving  slowly  against 


BLUE    FISH.  151 

the  ebb  tide.  I  must  not  undertake  to  tell  you  what 
we  did  in  the  way  of  dinner  that  afternoon.  We  got 
the  things  up  on  deck,  and,  with  every  fresh  attack  on 
the  eatables  and  drinkables,  we  seemed  to  acquire  fresh 
hunger  and  thirst.  It  was  positively  alarming  to  see 
the  manner  in  which  we  attacked  the  lamb,  and  chick 
ens,  and  crackers,  and  claret. 

The  moon  was  high  up,  and  very  bright,  when  we 
shot  slowly  by  the  head  of  the  steam-boat  wharf,  just 
as  the  train  from  Boston  came  down.  The  good  people 
of  Stonington  had  been  on  an  excursion  to  Newport 
that  day,  and  the  excellent  Stonington  band  were  dis 
coursing  sweet  music  to  a  large  crowd  on  the  wharf. 
Rockets  were  occasionally  thrown,  and,  on  the  whole, 
the  scene  was  as  lively  and  gay  as  you  have  ever  found 
in  the  metropolis.  We  had  no  small  pleasure  in  ex 
hibiting  our  load  of  fish,  which  we  now  threw  out  on 
the  pier  to  the  astonished  crowd.  It  was  conceded 
beyond  dispute  that  no  such  work  had  ever  been  done 
in  one  day  out  of  that  port,  and  probably  it  might  be  said 
generally.  We  had  over  three  hundred  fish,  weighing 
from  six  to  eleven  pounds  each,  and  fine  fat  fellows 
they  were.  Having  selected  all  we  wanted  for  our  own 
use,  we  told  the  by-standers  to  help  themselves,  and 
they  soon  disappeared. 

The  truth  of  my  account  is  well  known  to  all  the 
inhabitants  of  Stonington,  to  whom  I  refer  skeptics. 
Or,  if  doubt  still  exists,  I  can  only  recommend  the  trial 
of  the  fishing  there,  and  faith  will  be  given,  I  am  sure. 

But  see,  the  evening  has  stolen  down  on  me  before 


152  LATER    YEARS. 

I  was  aware  of  it,  and  the  meek  eyes  of  my  Flora  are 
shrouded  in  gloom.  Yet  they  gleam  joyously  even 
through  the  darkness,  and  now  in  the  twilight  I  can 
fancy°they  are  the  eyes  I  love  indeed,  and  so  I  resign 
myself  willingly  to  their  dear  company. 


XIX. 

april   |t  n  r  m  H, 

Steamer  C.  Vanderbilt,  April,  18 — . 

I  LEFT  Boston  this  afternoon,  after  passing  some  time 
there.  The  night  is  wearing  away  rapidly,  but  it 
lacks  yet  an  hour  or  two  of  my  accustomed  time  for 
sleep.  A  stiff  gale  of  wind  is  blowing,  but  this  mag 
nificent  vessel  is  staunch  and  firm,  and  I  feel  no  motion, 
although  my  ears  fairly  ache  with  the  howling  of  the 
storm  through  the  iron  braces.  I  have  been  some  time 

at  the  wheel,  and  now,  thanks  to  my  friend,  Mr.  W , 

I  am  occupying  a  comfortable  arm-chair  at  the  writing 
desk  in  his  room  ;  and,  by  your  leave,  I  will  devote  to 
you  the  first  hour  of  leisure  for  such  a  purpose  that  I 
have  had  in  months.  I  have  written  to  you  from  every 
place  imaginable  in  past  years  ;  sometimes  from  my 
seat  at  the  cabin  door,  and  often  from  the  trunk  of  a 
fallen  hemlock  on  the  river  bank.  But  this  is  the  per 
fection  of  comfort ;  and,  if  you  value  my  letter  at  all, 

you  must  thank  Mr.  W first  for  placing  me  so  much 

at  my  ease. 

I  am  the  more  tempted  to  write,  because  this  even 
ing  is   stormy,  and  this  day  the   anniversary  of  two 
storms,  whereof  I  purpose  now  to  give  you  a  sketch. 
G2 


15! 


LATER    YEARS. 


The  one  was  five  years  ago.  It  was  a  glorious  morn 
ing,  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  and  the  trout  were  wide 
awake,  as  also  were  Joe  and  myself.  We  had  been  in 
the  cabin  but  two  days,  arid  had  not  yet  taken  a  fish  ; 
and  this  morning  broke  so  clearly,  and  the  sun  peered 
so  pleasantly  through  the  small  window,  that  we  prom 
ised  ourselves  a  day  of  uncommon  sport.  Accordingly, 
after  a  breakfast  such  as  Black  alone  could  prepare, 
and  such  appetites  as  ours  could  well  appreciate,  we 
started  out,  rods  in  hand,  to  explore  the  windings  of 
the  creek.  Turning  over  an  occasional  fallen  tree,  or 
driving  our  feet  into  the  brown  dust  of  a  crumbling 
stump,  we  soon  provided  ourselves  with  wood-worms 
of  every  variety,  and  in  a  short  time  reached  the  deep 
basin,  of  which  I  have  heretofore  given  you  a  very  full 
description.  The  grass  was  fresh  and  green  on  the 
margin,  while  higher  up  the  banks  the  dead  leaves  lay 
in  masses,  offering  a  soft  bed,  on  which  I  fell  careless 
ly,  and  watched  the  proceedings  of  my  ally  Joe,  who 
was  cautiously  approaching  the  water.  I  saw  him 
holding  his  rod  in  the  right  hand,  and  the  line  in  his 
left ;  then,  with  a  graceful  wave,  and  a  slight  spring  of 
the  delicate  tip,  he  cast  his  hook  on  the  sheet  which 
came  down  the  rocks,  and  the  next  instant  his  rod  bent 
with  the  pull  of  a  heavy  fish  in  the  deep  pool  below. 
He  was  a  capital  hand  to  manage  a  rod,  and  in  five 
minutes  he  had  a  noble  trout  in  the  still  water  at  the 
side  of  the  pond,  where,  taking  off  the  butt  of  his  rod, 
in  which  he  had  already  placed  his  spear  and  landing- 
hook,  he  lifted  out  one  of  the  finest  fish  I  had  ever  seen. 


APRIL    STORMS. 

But  the  battle  had  scared  away  all  his  fellows,  and  no 
more  took  the  bait  in  that  water. 

While  Joe  was  trying  for  another,  I  was  lying  on  my 
back,  looking  up  through  the  leafless  branches  of  old 
trees  at  the  still,  blue  sky.  It  never  seemed  nearer, 
never  more  beautiful  and  calm.  I  was  wondering 
whether  I  should  argue  from  it  that  heaven  was  near 
er  to  us  in  the  spring  or  in  the  winter  of  life,  by  reason 
of  the  absence  of  those  obstructions  which  the  summer 
interposes  ;  but  then  I  remembered  that  those  very  ob 
structions  were  beautiful  blossoms,  or  emerald  leaves, 
or  golden  fruits  —  dear  affections,  cherished  hopes,  or 
hard-earned  treasures  ;  and  so,  lost  in  a  fit  of  moralizing, 
I  did  not  notice  that  the  sky  became  obscured,  and  I 
believe  I  was  asleep  when  Joe  returned  with  his  load 
of  fish,  and  told  me  it  was  about  to  rain. 

We  reached  the  cabin  only  in  time  to  escape  a  soak 
ing.  The  day  continued  showery,  but  toward  evening 
the  sun  broke  out,  and  lit  the  green  tops  of  the  hem 
locks  with  that  rich  lustre  which  is  peculiar  to  April 
sunsets  among  the  mountains. 

At  nine  o'clock  I  opened  the  cabin  door.  The  moon 
sat,  smiling,  on  the  very  brow  of  the  mountain,  and 
over  it  hung  a  dark  cloud,  with  a  faint  line  of  silver 
along  its  edge.  The  moon  sailed  slowly  up  into  it,  and 
disappeared.  At  the  same  time  I  began  to  feel  a  chill 
in  the  air,  and  turned  involuntarily  to  throw  a  fresh  log 
on  the  blazing  fire. 

I  watched  the  line  of  light  on  the  eastern  horizon 
slowly  closo  in.  It  was  half  an  hour,  at  the  least,  before 


LATER    YEARS. 

it  quite  vanished,  and  all  was  black — so  black  that  you 
could  not  believe  there  was  a  moon  in  the  sky.  And 
now  I  began  to  hear,  on  the  summit  of  the  western 
mountain,  the  rush  of  wind  through  the  branches  of 
the  stunted  pine-trees,  and  an  occasional  loud,  distinct 
wail,  as  if  a  hemlock  had  been  toying  with  the  breeze, 
but  now  complained  of  some  unexpected  rudeness.  At 
intervals  all  these  sounds  would  cease,  and  then  I  only 
heard  the  river  passing  over  the  rapid,  and  once  the 
far-off  cry  of  a  panther  on  the  mountain.  I  thought  it 
was  a  panther,  but  Black  insisted  that  it  was  the  cry 
of  the  ghost  that  lingers  around  the  Haunted  Rock. 

At  length  a  deep  silence,  such  as  is  never  known  ex 
cept  in  the  forest,  seemed  to  fall  suddenly  on  every 
thing.  The  very  sound  of  the  river  seemed  to  become 
less  a  sound,  and  more  a  thought,  and  the  hemlock  and 
the  wind  were  for  a  while  at  peace.  Then  I  heard  a 
low,  deep  roar,  far  off,  either  in  the  earth  or  the  air :  it 
seemed  like  the  roar  of  the  sea  heard  after  an  October 
gale.  It  approached  nearer  and  nearer,  and  now  the 
sky  grew  lighter,  and  I  could  see,  traced  dimly  against 
the  clouds,  the  gigantic  trees  which  stood  on  the  ridge 
across  the  river.  They  were  not  moving,  but,  spectre- 
like,  stood  calm  and  firm,  awaiting  the  enemy.  It  came. 
At  first  they  waved  their  heads  to  and  fro,  and  tossed 
their  arms  uneasily.  Then,  slowly  yielding  to  the 
steady  blast,  they  bowed  down,  and  the  wind  went 
wildly  by  them.  I  watched  them  steadily  till  my  eyes 
ached,  and  at  length  a  blinding  snow  squall  came  dash 
ing  down  the  river  bed,  and  I  closed  the  door  hastily, 
and  retreated  to  my  bearskin. 


APRIL    STORMS.  \57 

Joe  was  lying  quietly,  toasting  his  feet  at  the  fire.  It 
was  marvelous  that  they  did  not  burn,  for  they  were  in 
the  ashes,  and  a  mass  of  coals  close  to  them. 

You  have  already  a  good  idea  of  the  appearance  of 
that  cabin  in  a  stormy  night.  A  warm  and  cozy  nook 
it  is,  to  which  I  give  an  uneasy,  longing  look  in  many 
a  winter  evening  now,  but  which,  alas  !  I  am  not  to  en 
joy  again.  The  storm  was  fearful.  I  never  knew  the 
wind  to  be  more  lawless.  But  as  we  lay  on  the  cabin 
floor,  gazing  at  the  roof,  lit  by  the  fitful  blaze  on  the 
hearth,  listening  to  the  sounds  out  of  doors,  we  began, 
moved  by  a  common  impulse,  to  think  of  storms  more 
terrible  than  any  in  this  outer  world,  and  of  the  great 
trees  in  the  gardens  of  our  hearts,  grown  up  tall  and 
stately,  which  those  tempests  had  uprooted. 

"  Joe,"  said  I,  at  length,  as  a  memory  flashed  across 
my  mind,  "  where  is  Ellen to-night  ?" 

"  Resting,  I  hope,  in  the  arms  she  loved  best  of  all 
the  world." 

Then  we  were  silent,  and  then  came  slowly  through 
my  mind  the  incidents  in  the  life  of  one  of  the  dearest 
friends  of  our  hearts. 

It  was  on  a  moony  night  in  April,  long  ago,  that  the 
chief  incident  in  her  life  occurred.  She  was  a  school 
girl  then,  gay,  light-hearted,  and  happy — happy,  be 
cause  she  loved  one  of  the  finest  fellows  in  all  the  coun 
try,  and  was  soon  to  be  married  to  him.  As  usual  in 
the  tempests  of  which  I  now  speak,  Love  raised  the 
wind ;  and  never  a  wind  more  tempestuous  has  been 
raised  than  that  same  Love  can  get  up. 


158  LATER    YEARS. 

She  was  a  wayward  girl,  and  had  not  yet  learned 
the  severe  lessons  of  life.  She  had  read  many  novels 
too,  and  had  romantic  notions  of  love  and  of  living, 
which  she,  poor  child,  thought  were  the  most  natural 
and  truthful  ideas  in  the  world.  And  so,  when  the 
day  of  their  wedding  drew  nearer,  she  began  to  act  in 
accordance  with  them.  She  had  a  dewy  lip,  but  Phil 
was  forbidden  to  taste  its  sweetness.  It  would  have 
been  very  wrong  to  allow  a  kiss  upon  those  lips,  even 
from  her  betrothed  husband.  She  had  a  glorious  waist, 
and  a  form  of  exquisite  mould ;  but  she  shrank  from 
his  embrace,  and  forbade  the  touch  of  his  hand  upon 
her  round  shoulder.  Yet  one  night  he  dared  too  much, 
and  with  bold  lip  he  pressed  a  kiss  on  her  white  fore 
head,  and  another  on  her  cheek.  This  was  the  com 
mencement  of  a  lovers'  quarrel,  and  of  its  continuance 
none  knew  the  history,  except  that  the  face  of  each 
grew  sadder  and  sadder  daily,  till,  one  winter  morning, 
the  village  gossips  were  shocked  by  the  news  that  Phil 
was  gone  away  to  distant  countries. 

Gone,  and  alone  !  what  could  it  mean  ?  They  guess 
ed  a  thousand  causes,  but  none  guessed  aright.  Ellen 
had  discarded  him,  that  was  clear;  but  why,  none 
knew.  A  year  and  more  sped  swiftly.  Her  step  grew 
slower  and  heavier  daily.  Her  eye  lost  its  brightness. 
It  had  been  hard  to  part  from  him  at  any  time,  but  how 
much  harder  as  she  began  to  feel  the  solemn  truth  that 
she  had  wronged  him. 

At  length  there  came  letters  from  him.  He  was 
now  in  Europe,  now  in  Asia,  now  on  the  banks  of  the 


APRIL    STORMS.  159 

lordly  Nile.  He  was  treading  in  the  footsteps  of  the 
Israelites,  was  at  Hebron,  Bethlehem,  Jerusalem  ! 

He  wrote  often,  and  his  letters  were  sent  from  house 
to  house  about  the  village,  and  I  remember  how  in 
credible  it  used  then  to  appear  to  us  that  one  of  our 
little  number  had  indeed  bathed  in  the  Jordan,  or  slept 
by  the  margin  of  Gennesaret. 

At  length,  a  longer  silence  than  usual  began  to  excite 
some  anxiety  in  the  minds  of  those  that  loved  him  best. 
Two,  three  months  passed,  and  no  letters  reached  us. 
A  stray  newspaper,  that  by  some  singular  fatality  reach 
ed  the  village,  contained  an  account  of  the  ravages  of  a 
terrible  disease  in  Syria,  and  an  American  gentleman 
was  said  to  have  died  in  a  lonely  hut  on  the  side  of 
one  of  the  hills  of  Lebanon.  This  caused  an  immedi 
ate  and  overwhelming  fear,  and  I  was  dispatched  to  the 
city  to  procure  what  information  I  could  of  the  lost  one. 
All  that  I  was  able  to  learn  served  but  to  confirm  the 
terrible  fear.  I  was  even  so  successful  as  to  see  a  gen 
tleman  late  from  Beyroot,  who  had  met  Phil,  and  knew 
him  well,  and  who  informed  me  that  it  was  currently 
reported  before  he  left  that  he  (Phil)  had  died  in  an  ob 
scure  place  among  the  mountains. 

It  was  an  April  morning,  this  very  date,  that  I  return 
ed  to  our  quiet  village  with  my  painful  intelligence. 
The  father  of  my  friend  bore  the  news  well ;  not  so  the 
mother.  She  was  a  weak  woman,  and  it  wellnigh 
killed  her.  But  there  was  one  to  whom  I  knew  that 
news  would  come  with  terrible  force,  and  I  forbore  to 
tell  her  till  urged  to  it  by  her  immediate  relatives. 


160  LATER    YEARS. 

I  asked  her  to  walk  out  with  me.  The  moon  was  in 
the  sky,  serene  and  fair,  and  the  air  was  balmy  as  in 
June.  I  told  my  story  gently,  but  it  was  terrible  in  its 
effect.  "Dead!  dead!  Oh  God,  I  killed  him!"  was 
her  only  exclamation,  and  she  sank,  sobbing  first,  then 
senseless,  on  the  ground.  She  sobbed  at  first.  I  knelt 
by  her.  There  was  a  tempest  then  raging  in  her  soul 
which  surpassed  in  its  tremendous  force  any  of  these 
elemental  strifes  in  the  external  world.  She  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  moaned  aloud.  For  the  space 
of  thirty  seconds  her  agony  passed  all  description,  and 
then  a  shudder  passed  over  her  frame,  and  she  fell 
prone  upon  the  grass.  I  carried  her  into  the  house,  and 
placed  her  in  her  mother's  arms. 

I  pray  that  I  may  never  again  witness  such  a  scene. 
Scoff  as  you  please  at  such  a  story ;  smile,  as  you  smiled 
when  you  heard  it  told  last  summer,  my  friend,  but 
nevertheless  it  is  a  true  history  of  the  human  heart,  or 
of  woman's  heart,  which  is  very  human !  Can  you 
smile  ?  Imagine  that  queenly  girl,  whose  radiant  arms 
I  have  so  often  seen  wound  around  your  neck ;  that 
holy  woman,  whose  dove-eyes  have  spoken  so  often  to 
my  gaze  of  all  her  majestic  love  for  you  ;  that  pure  and 
perfect  being,  whose  dark  brown  hair  floats  over  her 
forehead  like  waves  of  musical  waters  over  a  pearly 
beach,  who  left  her  home  in  the  Northland  to  live  and 
die  with  you,  locked  in  your  arms,  forever  and  forever ; 
that  object  of  your  adoration,  even  before  your  God ; 
that  mother  of  your  bold-eyed  boy,  who  sleeps  to-day 
under  the  snow-drifts,  upon  whose  brow  rests  still,  un- 


APRIL    STORMS.  161 

touched  by  dust  or  death,  and  watched  by  angel  guard 
ians,  the  kiss  your  angel  wife  left  lying  there  when  I 
closed  the  coffin-lid,  and  shut  him  out  of  her  sight  until 
the  awakening — think,  I  say,  of  her  agony,  if  I  should 
be  the  bearer  to  her  of  the  sad  news  that  the  dust  which 
is  now  your  prison  had  been  found  crumbling,  and  that 
your  soul  had  escaped  through  some  fearful  chasm. 

Yet  Ellen loved  him  no  less  than  your  most  noble 

wife  loves  you !  Oh,  men  are  very  ready  to  sneer  at 
love  where  others  are  concerned,  but  they  love  right 
well  the  clasp  of  snowy  arms  and  the  pressure  of  fond 
lips  themselves ! 

An  hour  passed,  which  to  the  watchers  by  that  fair 
body  was  as  a  year  of  bitter  waiting.  The  storm  passed 
by.  One  by  one  in  the  heaven  above  her  came  out  the 
stars,  and  shone  down  mournfully  but  calmly  into  the 
depth  of  her  young  soul.  Never  had  light  reached  so 
deeply  in  it  before  ;  but  now,  as  she  lay  half  dreaming, 
we  could  look  into  every  recess,  and  we  read  the  whole 
history  there.  At  length  she  arose,  and  walked  to  the 
window,  and  looked  eagerly  out.  It  was  very  light, 
and  the  moon  shone  pleasantly  down  the  village  street, 
and  the  white  houses  gleamed  among  the  trees,  and  all 
was  calm,  peaceful,  and  holy ;  and  in  her  heart  there 
was  a  profound  calm,  but  bitterly  sorrowful  withal. 
She  stood  with  her  forehead  pressed  against  the  win 
dow,  gazing  earnestly  across  the  street  at  the  windows 
of  the  room  Phil  used  to  occupy  in  the  old  house.  I 
stood  by  her  side.  Suddenly  a  carriage  came  rattling 
up  the  street,  and  the  horses,  foaming  and  hot,  stopped 


162  LATER    YEARS. 

before  the  gate.  I  heard  a  voice  exclaim,  "  The  wrong 
side,  driver !"  I  looked  around  ;  Ellen  was  gone.  The 
next  instant  I  saw  her  flying  down  the  walk  toward  the 
gate,  and  heard  her  clear  voice  shouting,  "  Phil !  Phil !" 
I  thought  she  was  mad,  but  she  was  sane.  The  famil 
iar  sound  of  his  voice  had  reached  her  ear.  It  was  he  ! 
He  sprang  from  the  carriage,  and  an  instant  after  he 
brought  her  in  his  arms,  as  I  had  a  few  moments  before 
in  mine,  and  laid  her  on  a  sofa,  and  then  turned  to  greet 
us. 

Yerily,  it  was  an  April  evening,  only  the  storms  were 
like  thunder-storms  rather  than  April  showers  ;  and 
before  that  April  had  passed,  we  had  a  joyful  wedding 
in  the  village,  and  the  moon  and  the  stars  looked  into 
the  room  through  the  shutters  at  the  marriage  festival ; 
and  if  that  same  moon  and  those  stars  haven't  long  ago 
got  used  to  contrasts,  they  must  have  wondered  that 
night  at  the  happiness  of  our  queenly  Ellen. 

There,  you  have  my  story  ;  and  as  I  finish  it,  I  am 

interrupted  by  a  suggestion  of  my  good  friend,  Mr. , 

that  if  I  want  a  cup  of  coftee  before  sleeping,  I  can  find 
it  below  deck ;  so,  by  your  leave,  I  will  seek  first  the 
pantry,  and  then  my  state-room. 


XX. 


Block  Island,  August,  18—. 

sun  is  just  going  down.  The  sky  is  beautiful, 
JL  clear,  deep,  and  very  calm.  The  sea  is  sleeping. 
Not  a  breath  of  air  moves  its  glassy  surface,  though  a 
fresh  breeze  blows  across  the  high  land  on  which  our 
house  stands.  A  group  of  persons  are  on  the  opposite 
hill,  near  the  iron  spring,  while  against  the  sky  you 
may  see,  on  the  summit  of  the  beacon,  several  horses, 
each  bearing  a  gentleman  and  lady.  All  eyes  are  di 
rected  toward  that  magnificent  west.  And  now  the 
glorious  sun,  gathering  rapidly  up  the  beams  that  have 
been  dancing  on  the  waves,  and  gladdening  the  yellow 
harvest  fields,  has  wrapped  them  around  him  and  is 
gone. 

Peace  be  with  us  all  to-night.  "We  shall  sleep  well 
to  the  music  of  the  sea,  and  I  shall  hear  all  night  the 
old  familiar  songs.  Peace  be  with  all  the  world  to 
night.  Wondrously  kind,  and  pitiful,  and  prayerful  are 
we  in  this  island  home,  for  we  are  so  happy  and  so 
calm,  that  we  would  have  all  others  so. 

"  In  silence  and  sadness  cometh  the  night, 
In  joy  and  gladness  cometh  the  night, 
In  glory,  majesty,  and  might, 

Cometh  the  night." 


164  LATER    YEARS. 

Now,  one  by  one,  or  in  somewhat  weary  couples,  our 
party  come  in  from  the  hills  and  the  sea-shore.  The 
green  grass  in  front  of  the  house  offers  a  pleasant  couch. 
The  stone  steps  are  covered.  Here  and  there,  on  the 
lawn,  a  pillion,  thrown  from  the  tired  horse,  is  occupied 
by  a  lady  or  a  gentleman,  and  the  front  windows  of  the 
house  are  opened,  that  others  may  sit  near  them. 
Pleasant  voices  interrupt  the  monotonous  sounds  of  the 
sea,  and,  as  the  night  grows  darker,  we  will  sing  our 
songs  to  the  ocean,  and  the  ocean  shall  reply. 

We  are  here  with  one  of  the  pleasantest  parties  ever 
gotten  together  for  an  expedition  like  this.  We  have 
a  rare  collection  of  cheerful  faces  and  voices,  and  we 
have  filled  the  house  full — nay,  more  than  full,  if  that 
were  possible ;  for,  while  I  content  myself  with  a  bed 

in  the  entry,  shared  by  my  friend  S ,  and  guarding 

the  door  of  the  ladies  under  our  especial  protection, 
others  (not  of  our  party)  are  lodging  elsewhere  and  eat 
ing  at  our  table. 

We  have  come  to  Block  Island  for  a  pleasant  week. 
We  know  one  another,  and  now  that  I  reflect,  I  believe 
there  is  some  sort  of  a  cousinship  between  almost  all 
the  individuals  of  the  party.  Be  that  as  it  may,  we 
have  devised  this  expedition  as  a  sort  of  seven  days' 
picnic  ;  and  could  you  see  us  at  any  hour  of  the  day, 
you  would  envy  us  the  absence  of  restraint  and  the 
freedom  with  which  we  enjoy  every  thing. 

Thus  much  to  tell  you  who  and  what  we  are. 

The  family  of  Mr.  Sands,  our  host,  is  the  oldest  and 
most  respectable  on  the  island.  In  a  volume  ofHistor- 


BLOCK    ISLAND.  165 

ical  Collections  which  I  found  on  the  main  land,  I  met 
with  frequent  mention  of  Captain  James  Sands,  and  his 
son,  Captain  John  Sands,  as  most  worthy  and  influential 
men  on  this  island  as  early  as  the  year  1670.  Mr. 
Nathaniel  Sands,  the  present  head  of  the  family,  is  a  fit 
successor  of  those  brave  men.  I  have  been  seeking  for 
the  early  history  of  the  island,  but  can  find  none  of  it 
here.  In  the  volume  of  Historical  Collections  afore 
named,  however,  I  find  a  paper  prepared  by  a  clergy 
man,  resident  on  the  island  some  time  prior  to  the  Rev 
olution,  from  which  I  have  gleaned  much  interesting 
information.  But  I  do  not  propose  to  annoy  you  with 
any  detail,  only  giving  you  sufficient  facts  to  enable 
you  to  appreciate  the  interest  which  such  a  locality 
presents. 

Isolate,  and  consequently  left  to  depend  on  their  own 
resources  for  every  thing,  the  islanders  have  for  more 
than  a  century  been  a  unique  and  remarkable  people. 
Many  of  them,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  have,  either  by  orig 
inal  or  acquired  sin,  become  most  experienced  land- 
sharks,  and  it  is  therefore  becoming  in  all  visitors  to  be 
wary  of  the  boats  which  may  board  them  in  the  offing. 
(Witness  a  demand  of  five  dollars  for  fifteen  minutes' 
use  of  a  boat,  when  our  own  yawl  was  not  immediately 
at  hand.)  Yet  among  the  fishermen  and  boatmen  are 
not  a  few  hardy  men  of  brave  and  bold  hearts,  with 
whom  I  have  spent  much  time  pleasantly  and  profita 
bly.  Their  boats,  which,  from  the  total  want  of  a  har 
bor,  are  so  built  as  to  be  readily  hauled  up  on  the  beach, 
are  schooner-rigged  and  very  able.  They  will  take  you 


166  LATER    YEARS. 

on  board,  push  out  from  among  the  stakes  which  are 
driven  near  the  beach,  make  all  sail  in  a  twinkling, 
and  then  walk  into  the  very  eyes  of  a  hurricane.  But 
in  all  weather,  now  lying  idle  day  by  day  in  close,  hot 
fogs,  now  flying  like  the  wind  before  a  storm,  or  lying 
down  close  to  a  gale,  drenched  with  the  salt  spray,  they 
are  equally  contented  and  comfortable  in  whatever  po 
sition  placed,  and  sleep  as  well  on  the  stone  ballast  in 
the  bottoms  of  their  egg-shells  as  on  the  corn-husk  mat 
tresses  in  their  warmest  houses. 

There  are  many  fine  farms  on  the  island,  which  are 
valued  at  one  hundred  and  fifty  and  even  two  hundred 
dollars  an  acre.  Grain  of  all  kinds  grows  well.  Sheep 
thrive  admirably,  and  if  they  would  but  build  sheds  for 
their  cattle,  they  might  increase  their  already  large  pro 
duction  of  butter  and  cheese.  Newport  is  their  best 

market  (and,  by-the-by,  my  dear ,  thanks  to  your 

unconscionable  appetites  at  the  Bellevue  House,  we  are 
short  of  poultry  here,  and  we  can't  have  chickens,  which 
ought  to  form  the  chief  ornament  of  a  Block  Island  ta 
ble.  It  is  unpardonable  that  your  extremely  unfash 
ionable  feeding  at  the  large  houses  should  result  in  con 
demning  us  to  an  unmerciful  routine  of  blue  fish  and 
chowder,  cod  and  tautog). 

But  I  weary  you  with  statistics.  I  have  written  this 
letter,  more  than  otherwise,  as  an  introduction  to  some 
few  which  I  propose  to  give  you  from  this  look-out. 

Our  days  pass  pleasantly.  We  rise  (I  very  early,  to 
make  room  for  the  wards,  across  whose  door  I  sleep), 
and  breakfast  at  eight.  Previous  to  breakfast,  a  bath  in 


BLOCK    ISLAND.  167 

the  surf  is  invigorating;  after  that,  we  mount  the  horses, 
each  gentleman  taking  a  lady  on  the  pillion  behind  him, 
and  we  have  a  gallop  along  the  sands.  Then  we  turn 
into  the  country,  and  call  at  a  house  or  two,  and  return 
to  dinner  (mirabile  dictu  !)  at  half  past  eleven !  Think 
of  that !  Just  six  hours  in  advance  of  my  regular  din 
ner  hour,  and  one  and  a  half  of  luncheon !  yet  we  have 
marvelous  appetites  for  chowder  and  blue  fish,  though, 
to  say  truth,  we  do  begin  to  grow  tired  of  them,  but  our 
hosts  are  so  kind  and  anxious  that  we  can't  summon 
up  courage  to  tell  them  so.  After  dinner,  siestas  and 
cigars,  then  a  drive  in  the  omnibus  —  a  two-wheeled 
cart,  which  I  have  caused  to  be  rigged  with  three  seats 
across  it,  on  which  nine  ladies  can  ride,  while  as  many 
gentlemen  can,  if  they  choose,  walk  at  the  side.  To 
ward  sunset,  a  walk  to  the  boiling  spring,  or  along  the 
sands,  and  then  tea,  and  then — now  ! 

It  is  the  pleasantest  hour  of  the  day.  The  sky  is  as 
clear  and  joyful  as  if  new  stars  had  been  to-night  cre 
ated,  and  their  brethren  were  singing  a  new  anthem 
with  all  the  sons  of  God.  It  is  such  a  night  as  the 
Chaldeans  of  old  would  have  loved,  and  as  we  star- 
gazers,  too,  love  and  worship.  I  can  hear,  even  now, 
far  away  in  the  arches  of  heaven,  the  echoing  of  that 
old  song,  sung  when  the  earth  was  rocked  to  its  first 
slumber — now  low  and  faint,  as  the  distant  sound  of 
the  surf,  now  triumphant  as  the  march  of  a  victorious 
army. 

And  now  voices  less  spiritual,  perhaps,  but  equally 
welcome  to  mortal  ears  (thank  God  for  the  gentle 


168  LATER    YEARS. 

voices  we  love),  are  singing  songs  of  the  earth,  and  we 
listen  willingly.  The  group  around  the  door  gathers 
closer  and  closer  together.  You  never  would  have 
supposed  so  many  could  sit  on  the  steps.  The  same 
shawls  and  gentlemen's  overcoats  are  thrown  around 
two  or  three  forms  as  they  twine  their  arms  around 
each  other.  The  sea  air  comes  up  chillily,  but  so  min 
gled  with  sweet  sounds,  and  so  laden  with  cool  caress 
es,  that  we  will  not  be  driven  in.  A  brilliant  point 
suddenly  gleams  out  at  the  zenith,  sways  to  and  fro, 
and  flickers  like  a  beacon-light  in  a  sea  wind,  then  with 
a  train  of  silver  light  shoots  down  across  the  sky,  al 
ready  so  radiant  with  star-dust.  A  happy  yet  solemn 
silence  seals  all  our  lips,  and  we  forget  for  a  moment 
that  there  is  any  space  between  the  sad  world  and  the 
holy  stars.  We  never  leave  the  steps  until  midnight. 


XXI. 

a  iHnrk   3  s  I  ntr  ft  |  trtt  iu  if. 

Block  Island,  August,  18 — . 

"^TTESTEEDAY  we  attended  church  on  the  island. 
JL  A  more  quiet  Sunday  morning  was  never  witness 
ed.  Not  a  sound  was  heard  but  that  everlasting  mur 
mur  of  the  sea,  and  yet  it  is  always  so  quiet  here  that 
the  only  change  we  observed  was  in  the  closed  doors 
of  the  houses  on  the  neighboring  hills.  "VYe  placed  the 
ladies  in  the  omnibus  (the  cart  aforementioned),  and 
walked  leisurely  ourselves  by  its  side.  Up  and  down 
hill,  steadily  progressing,  yet  at  each  turn  of  the  road 
seeming  to  be  nearer  home  than  at  the  last  turn,  we  at 
length  reach  the  low-roofed  house,  where  a  worthy  man 
reasons  weekly  (but  by  no  means  weakly)  to  his  congre 
gation  of"  righteousness,  temperance,  and  a  judgment  to 
come."  The  room  may  be  capable  of  seating  two  hund 
red  persons,  and  nearly  as  many  were  present.  A  more 
respectable  and  orderly  assembly  I  have  never  seen. 

The  first  and  most  obvious  reflection  in  my  mind  was 
that  in  which  I  have  frequently  before  indulged,  name 
ly,  on  the  simple  and  sublime  beauty  of  our  most  holy 
religion.  I  have  spent  a  lifetime  (thus  much  of  it)  in 
communion  with  men  of  all  ages  and  all  creeds.  For 
many  years  of  ardent  and  somewhat  skeptical  youth,  I 
H 


170  LATER   YEARS. 

worshipped  the  star  that  shone  over  the  cottage  of  the 
son  of  Sophroniscus,  and  listened  in  rapt  awe  to  the 
teachings  of  his  great  pupil.  My  first  thought  on  enter 
ing  this  house  was  to  contrast  our  creed  and  its  teach 
ings  with  the  sublime  but  dark  doctrines  of  the  Acad 
emy,  the  Porch,  and  the  Lyceum. 

In  the  golden  age  of  Greece,  some  few  old  men,  worn 
with  lives  of  hard  toil  in  the  closet,  and  melancholy  be 
cause  lonely  study,  on  the  magnificent  portico  of  some 
temple  of  idolatry,  or  in  groves  peopled  with  the  costly 
sculpture  of  princely  artists,  taught  the  words  of  half 
true,  half  dreamy  philosophy  to  a  small  group  of  listen 
ers,  who  were  children  of  wealth,  and  pomp,  and  mag 
nificence,  while  the  millions  worshipped  in  gloom  and 
awe  the  countless  deities  of  a  heathen  mythology.  Two 
thousand  years  have  passed,  and  on  a  surf-beaten  island 
in  the  ocean,  a  plain  but  earnest  man,  in  simple  yet 
noble  language,  directs  the  gaze  of  his  hearers,  hardy 
fishermen  and  farmers,  to  the  star  which  shone  two 
thousand  years  ago  above  the  plains  of  Judea,  to  the 
cross  which  gleamed  two  thousand  years  ago  by  the 
walls  of  Jerusalem.  The  groves  of  the  Academy  are 
gone!  The  Parthenon  has  crumbled.  The  song  of  the 
temple  is  hushed,  and  the  smoke  of  the  Jewish  sacrifice 
has  forever  ceased  to  ascend !  The  ruthless  hand  of 
Bacon,  leading  on  the  hosts  of  modern  utilitarianism, 
has  scattered  all  the  fair  flowers  of  ancient  philosophy, 
and  Aristotle,  and  Plato,  and  Socrates  are  remembered 
in  few  homes,  and  are  no  longer  the  household  gods  in 
any  ;  but  the  creed  of  our  Savior  is  taught  on  the  main 


A    BLOCK    ISLAND    SUNDAY.  171 

land  and  the  islands  of  the  sea,  and  the  children  of 
poverty  and  lowliness  know,  as  well  as  the  rich,  the 
deepest  of  its  mysteries. 

Who  will  wonder,  then,  that  the  distant  sound  of  the 
sea,  as  I  sat  by  the  window  yesterday,  was  to  me  like 
the  murmur  of  Gennesaret,  and  that  in  the  voice  of  the 
preacher  I  heard  tones  to  which  I  would  willingly  have 
listened  longer.  He  was  a  fit  man  for  his  place.  And 
yet  it  was  strange  to  hear  him  warning  his  flock  of  the 
dangers  of  wandering  out  into  the  world  !  One  couldn't 
well  imagine  what  danger  there  was,  since  it  was  only 
on  the  dim  northern  horizon  that  a  blue  line  of  land 
marked  the  outer  boundary  of  that  world,  and  not  one 
in  twenty  of  his  hearers  had  ever  been  nearer  to  it. 
But  he  told  them  that  if  they  loved  the  creed  of  Christ 
and  wandered  from  it,  there  was  hope  for  them  ;  but  if 
they  had  only  professed,  and  that  falsely,  to  love  it,  there 
was  little  hope  that  they  would  return  when  once  away  ; 
and  he  likened  them,  under  such  circumstances,  to  the 
raven  and  dove  which  Noah  sent  from  the  ark.  The- 
raven  found  enough  of  corruption  floating  on  the  sur 
face  of  the  restless  waters  to  gratify  his  base  desires 
and  natural  tastes,  and  returned  no  more  ;  but  the  dove 
found  no  rest  for  the  sole  of  her  foot,  and  came  back 
wearied,  and  glad  to  find  refuge. 

Seeing  many  strangers  in  his  congregation,  he  espe 
cially  invited  them  to  aid  in  the  singing,  and,  after  the 
sermon,  he  invited  remarks  from  any  present ;  but  I 
fancy  none  of  our  party  were  given  to  moralizing  from 
the  desk. 


172  LATER    YEARS. 

As  the  evening  began  to  come,  and  the  grave-stones 
made  long  shadows  down  the  hill  side,  we  went  to  the 
old  grave-yard  on  the  west  side,  and  strolled  where  the 
islanders  are  wont  to  go  when  they  have  done  with 
rocking  on  the  ocean.  "  A  snug  place  to  lie,  this,"  said 
Mr. to  me.  "Ay,  one  might  sleep  well  here,  as 
sured  of  a  ceaseless  lullaby  till  the  judgment,"  said  I, 
turning  to  the  sea.  Here  is  the  grave  of  old  Simon 
Ray,  the  father  and  teacher  of  the  islanders  for  nearly 
a  century.  He  died  almost  a  hundred  years  ago,  and 
had  then  lived  a  hundred  and  two  years.  His  grave 
stone  recites  his  virtues,  and  the  debt  of  gratitude  which 
the  island  owes  to  him.  It  is  especially  worthy  of  note 
how  many  unmarked  graves  are  here.  The  broad  hill 
side  is  covered  with  mounds,  under  which  are  mould 
ering  the  bones  of  men  that  had  battled  well  with  winds 
and  waves,  and  at  length  found  rest  here,  and  are  ut 
terly  forgotten.  The  contrast  between  life  and  death 
here  is  peculiarly  startling.  A  living  Block  Islander  is 
a  very  different  object  from  a  dead  one,  and  to  see  one 
living,  you  would  not  believe,  though  he  were  gray, 
that  he  would  ever  die.  But  time,  here  as  elsewhere, 
"  sadly  overcometh  all  things,"  and  even  the  island  it 
self  wears  slowly  away  from  the  southward,  though  it 
makes  out  to  the  northward. 

This  morning  we  took  a  long  ride.  Another  gentle 
man  and  myself  went  on  horseback  to  Clay  Head.  \Ye 
had  a  lady  on  each  horse  with  us  (on  pillions),  and  rode 
all  the  way  with  our  horses'  fetlocks  wet  by  the  surf. 
From  the  top  of  the  bluff,  as  also  from  every  bluff  on 


A    BLOCK    ISLAND    SUNDAY.  173 

the  island,  you  may  look  over  a  broad  sea  view,  and 
examine  to  your  heart's  content  the  "  waste  of  waters." 
We  picked  up  lots  of  shells  on  the  shore,  and  it  would 
have  done  you  a  deal  of  good  to  see  the  millions  of 
blue  fish  in  the  surf,  so  close  to  the  shore  that  we  could 
distinguish  their  eyes  and  scales.  These  fish  follow 
the  lance  fish  and  bait  fish  into  the  shoalest  water,  and 
are  often  taken  from  the  shore  by  heaving  and  haul 
ing.  I  have  not  fished  any  as  yet.  The  water  is 
full  of  them,  but  I  have  been  sufficiently  occupied  on 
land. 

Last  evening  a  sacred  concert  was  announced  to  take 
place  in  front  of  the  house  after  tea ;  and  we  have  the 
material  in  our  company  for  fine  music.  I  was  walk 
ing  down  from  the  iron  spring  with  a  lady,  when  the 
soft  notes  of  "  Ave  Sanctissima"  came  floating  to  us 
with  a  richness  and  sweetness  I  can  not  well  describe. 
Then  followed  old  familiar  hymns  and  melodies  that 
sounded  like  childhood  come  back  again.  In  truth,  it 
was  a  pleasant  Sabbath  evening.  We  sang,  as  usual, 
till  nearly  midnight. 

This  morning  S had  a  somewhat  sudden  bath. 

He  was  politely  offering  his  hand  to  a  lady  to  help  her 
up  on  a  rock  around  which  the  waves  were  dashing, 
when  he  slipped  and  fell  backward.  A  large  wave 
(which  is,  like  a  shark,  always  ready  when  there  is 
any  thing  to  be  had)  came  up,  and  took  him  off  on  the 
return.  He  swam  quietly  around,  and,  making  the  best 
of  it,  since  he  was  in,  took  a  bath,  and  came  out  at  his 
leisure.  It  is  comfortable,  at  all  events,  to  dress,  as  we 


174  LATER    YEARS. 

do  here,  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  little  odds  whethei 
we  are  in  or  out  of  the  water. 

Some  of  our  gentlemen  have  been  fishing  this  morn 
ing,  and  returned  with  fifty  or  sixty  blue  fish  and  half 
a  dozen  bass — the  blue  fish  weighing  from  seven  to 
eleven  pounds  each,  and  the  bass  say  fifteen  pounds 
apiece. 

This  afternoon,  should  all  things  prosper,  we  will  go 
over  to  the  Southeast  Bluffs,  and  I  will  tell  you  an  In 
dian  legend  thereof,  with  which  my  book  of  Historical 
Collections  has  furnished  me. 


XXII. 

<$>$i  I  n u t  jr  J tt a t  fluffs* 

Block  Island,  August,  18 — . 

THE  dust  of  many  portions  of  the  earth  is  sacred,  as 
having  in  former  years  been  the  prison  of  spiritual 
existence.  There  is  an  old  and  favorite  saying  of  wri 
ters  who  would  create  effect,  to  this  purpose,  that  the 
earth  has  been  buried  over  and  over  with  the  dead,  and 
all  of  the  ground  on  which  we  tread  has  been,  at  some 
time  or  other,  thrown  up  to  make  room  for  the  clay  of 
man  to  form  a  portion  of  its  kindred  clay.  To  you  who 
are  wiser,  and  less  apt  to  use  words  for  mere  effect,  I 
need  not  say  that  this  is  all  poetic  license,  and  that  all 
the  people  that  have  walked  the  earth  during  the  last 
six  thousand  years  would  lie  comfortably  enough,  side 
by  side,  in  the  earth  of  New  York  State,  and  have  room 
to  turn  over,  if  perchance  they  should  grow  restless  in 
their  slumbers. 

Nevertheless,  the  dust  we  daily  tread  on  may  have 
been  the  dust  that  was  once  humanity,  and  the  violets 
we  gather  in  the  fields  may  spring  from  above  blue 
eyes ;  and  there  are,  as  I  before  said,  portions  of  the 
earth  sanctified  by  the  repose  of  men,  and  portions  en 
riched  with  the  dust  of  nations.  There  lie  swarthy 
Ethiops  in  myriads  under  the  soil  of  Africa,  and  keen- 


176  LATER    YEARS. 

eyed  Parthians  under  the  old  plains  of  Asia  Minor,  and 
stalwart  Greeks  close  by  the  Acropolis,  and  rough-vis- 
aged  Huns  and  Goths  scattered  from  the  gates  of  old 
Pbome  to  the  Frozen  Ocean.  And  they  sleep  well  with 
al,  and  men  walk  over  them,  heedless  that  the  dust  on 
their  sandals  is  the  dust  of  some  gaunt  Visigoth,  of  At- 
tila  the  Hun  himself,  or  mayhap  the  scattered  fragments 
of  the  Caesars ! 

You  are  beginning  to  ask  what  this  has  to  do  with 
Block  Island  ?  I  will  proceed  to  tell  you.  In  my  last 
I  described  the  grave-yard  where  the  old  men  of  the 
present  race  of  inhabitants  have  found  repose.  I  have 
now  to  speak  of  those  who  preceded  them,  and  whose 
dust  has  mingled  with  the  dust  of  the  island.  The 
island  was  formerly  inhabited  by  a  tribe  of  Indians 
who  were  more  given  to  war  and  strife  than  any  of  the 
tribes  of  New  England.  They  had  no  connection  with 
any  of  the  aboriginal  inhabitants  of  the  main  land,  but 
were  constantly  quarreling  with  them,  and  when  there 
was  no  other  cause  of  dispute,  they  found  it  easy  to 
make  one  by  a  predatory  excursion  on  the  main. 

This  state  of  things  had  continued  so  long  that  a  de 
termination  was  at  length  had  to  destroy  the  islanders, 
and  remove  their  very  name  from  among  the  nations 
of  this  world.  To  this  end  (as  I  learn  from  my  book  of 
Historical  Collections),  the  Mohegans  gathered  in  force, 
and  prepared  to  cross  to  the  island.  If  you  ask  me 
what  the  Mohegans  were  doing  down  this  way,  I  can't 
answer  you.  My  authority  is  the  book  aforesaid,  and  I 
am  only  responsible  for  such  history  as  I  manufacture 


THE    SOUTHEAST    BLUFFS.  177 

myself.  Yet  the  writer  speaks  so  confidently  of  them, 
that  I  think  he  must  be  correct,  and  am  led,  therefore, 
to  date  the  period  of  this  battle  in  that  remote  time 
when  the  lordly  Mohegans  were  masters  from  the  great 
lakes  to  the  sea,  and  the  council-fire  on  the  banks  of 
their  majestic  river  was  surrounded  by  chieftains  from 
the  shore  of  the  Atlantic  and  the  waters  of  the  beautiful 
Ohio.  That  was  before  divisions  and  dissensions  had 
separated  them,  and  long  before  the  foot  of  the  white 
man  had  defiled  their  shores. 

I  don't  know  why  it  is  that  the  sea  has  such  a  bad 
influence  on  human  nature,  but  there  are  more  bad  men 
on  its  shores  than  elsewhere  :  that  is  indisputable.  I 
have  told  you  that  many  of  the  present  Block  Islanders 
are  sharks :  their  predecessors  were  no  better ;  they 
were  very  devils,  as  my  story  will  show  you. 

They  had  devised  an  expedition  to  the  main  land. 
No  disturbance  had  occurred  for  a  long  while,  and  their 
hands  were  growing  weak  with  idleness.  Accordingly, 
it  was  resolved,  in  full  council,  that  the  whole  tribe 
should  go  to  the  main,  and  wake  up  the  Mohegans  with 
the  war-whoop. 

They  started  on  a  moonlight  evening  in  autumn. 
Carrying  their  bark  canoes  down  to  the  shore,  they 
launched  them  skillfully  through  the  surf,  and  a  thou 
sand  men  were  afloat  as  the  night  closed  in.  At  this 
time,  I  should  remark,  the  large  pond  in  the  centre  of 
the  island  was  a  bay,  for  the  sand  has  since  closed  it 
in,  and  the  hills  were  covered  with  forest  timber,  which 
has  since  been  cut  away.  The  Southeast  Bluffs  were 
H2 


178  LATER    YEARS. 

far  more  steep  and  lofty  than  now,  albeit  they  are  still 
sufficiently  so  for  the  purposes  of  my  story.  There 
was  then  one  bluff  which  was  nearly  two  hundred  feet 
above  the  sea,  and  the  heavy  surge  had  washed  the 
earth  away  until  it  overhung  the  very  edge  of  the  surf. 
The  only  access  to  it  was  by  the  steep  but  grass-grown 
slope  on  the  land  side,  at  the  foot  of  which  a  grove  of 
magnificent  oaks  then  stood. 

Scarcely  had  the  flotilla  of  canoes  left  the  shore  of 
the  island,  when  the  leader  in  the  foremost  boat  thought, 
as  he  rose  on  a  wave,  that  he  saw  in  the  northern  hor 
izon  a  strange  black  mass  moving  toward  him.  It  re 
quired  an  Indian's  eye  to  distinguish  it  at  all ;  but  he 
very  soon  recognized  the  canoes  of  the  Mohegans.  The- 
islanders  returned  to  the  shore  undiscovered,  and  car 
ried  their  canoes  up  into  the  forest.  Two  hundred 
canoes  brought  the  Mohegans  to  the  assault,  and,  con 
fident  of  surprising  their  enemies,  they  landed  without 
caution,  and  entered  the  forest. 

A  profound  stillness  rested  on  all  things,  broken  only 
by  the  surge  on  the  beach,  until  the  last  band  of  in 
vaders  had  passed  from  the  moonlight  into  the  shadow 
of  the  trees,  and  then  a  yell  rang  through  the  forest  and 
over  the  sea,  such  as  the  sea  never  heard  before  or  since 
on  that  shore.  I  can  not  pause  to  describe  the  horrors 
of  that  fight.  It  was  not  as  battles  in  our  days  are 
fought,  when  the  cannon  and  the  musketry  mow  down 
thousands  in  an  hour,  but  it  was  a  long  contest,  hand 
to  hand,  foot  to  foot,  breast  to  breast.  It  lasted  four 
days  and  four  nights  with  inconceivable  fury.  Men 


THE   SOUTHEAST   BLUFFS.  179 

lived  on  each  other's  blood.  There  was  no  thought  of 
rest  or  yielding.  The  first  movement  of  the  islanders 
had  been  to  destroy  the  boats  of  the  Mohegans,  and 
their  women  removed  and  concealed  their  own.  It  was 
useless  then  for  the  invaders  to  think  of  any  retreat ; 
they  must  conquer  or  die.  With  that  stern  determina 
tion  that  distinguished  the  North  American  Indian,  they 
prepared  themselves  for  the  alternative,  and  fought  on 
manfully.  The  deeds  of  valor  wrought  in  such  days 
are  left  to  the  imagination  of  the  poet,  for  the  pen  of 
no  historian  has  recorded  them.  They  were  men  for 
whom  Godfrey  would  have  given  his  right  arm  to  have 
them  in  Jerusalem.  What  scenes  the  stars  look  down 
upon !  That  night  they  saw  the  mailed  Christian  hosts 
hewing  down  the  swarthy  Paynims,  and  heard  the 
"  Deus  Vult"  echoed  ten  thousand  times  from  the  walls 
of  the  Holy  City,  and  at  the  same  moment  (who  can 
say  I  speak  falsely?)  they  saw  through  the  overhanging 
forest  the  red  left  hands  of  a  thousand  savage  warriors, 
grasping  each  the  throat  of  his  foe,  while  their  right 
hands  struck  murderous  blows  with  heavy  axes  of 
stone,  or  with  keen  knives  of  ivory-like  bone,  and  the 
shrieks  of  slayer  and  slain  were  heard  over  the  thunder 
of  the  sea.  There  fell  a  gallant  blow  for  Christ  and 
for  Jerusalem  on  the  crest  of  the  Saracen,  and  he  went 
down  in  the  roar  of  the  battle.  Here  the  bare  brow  of 
the  red  man  was  crushed  with  the  rude  hatchet  of  his 
foe.  There,  through  the  city  gates,  the  war  rolled  on, 
with  cries  of  madness  and  shouts  of  victory,  with  wail 
ing  of  women,  and  neighing  of  steeds,  and  exultant 


180  LATER    YEARS. 

shouts,  "Jerusalem,"  "The  Cross,"  "God  wills  it," 
"  Godfrey,  Godfrey,"  "  France  to  the  rescue,"  "  Ray 
mond  for  the  Sepulchre,"  and  a  thousand  like  cries, 
wherewith  Europe  frightened  the  infidels  from  the 
walls  of  the  Holy  City.  Here,  the  wild  cry  of  man 
thirsting  for  the  blood  of  man,  the  alternate  silence  of 
the  deep  forest,  and  the  war-whoop  of  three  thousand 
fiends.  But  which  was  maddest,  which  fought  for  the 
best  cause,  who  can  say  ?  So  goes  the  world  !  Did  it 
ever  occur  to  you  before  what  the  Indians  in  America 
were  doing  when  the  Crusaders  were  before  the  walls 
of  Jerusalem  ?  But  I  forget  my  story. 

The  battle  continued,  as  I  have  said,  four  nights  and 
four  days,  and  on  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day,  about 
one  hundred  Mohegans  made  a  last  rally  at  the  foot  of 
the  slope,  which  ascended  to  the  summit  of  the  bluff  I 
have  spoken  of. 

Here  the  battle  ceased.  Nearly  two  thousand  of 
their  companions  lay  dead  on  the  island,  and  the  con 
querors  paused  from  their  work  of  destruction.  As 
they  entered  the  grove  of  oaks,  the  Mohegans  retired 
toward  the  summit  of  the  bluff,  and  stood  like  tigers  at 
bay.  Once  a  fierce  attack  was  made  by  the  islanders, 
but  they  were  beaten  back  like  hounds,  and  shrank  into 
the  forest.  They  then  sat  down  at  the  base  of  the  hill 
in  full  force,  and  kept  their  foes  as  prisoners  on  the  high 
bluff.  Thrice  after  that  the  sun  rose  and  set,  and  no 
sound  was  heard  from  the  summit  of  the  hill,  by  day  or 
by  night,  except  that  at  times  the  listeners  fancied  that 
the  music  of  the  sea  was  mingled  with  the  death-song 


THE    SOUTHEAST    BLUFFS.  181 

of  some  dying  warriors.  At  each  early  dawn  they 
could  see  the  gaunt  forms  of  the  Mohegans  against  the 
sky,  as  they  watched  for  the  coming  of  the  sun,  and  all 
the  day  long  they  saw  them  lie  prone  on  the  grass,  mo 
tionless  and  silent,  as  if  already  dead.  At  length  there 
were  fewer  forms  awaiting  the  sunrise,  and  fewer 
resting  on  the  sward,  till  at  last  the  number  dwindled 
down  to  ten,  and  the  next  morning  but  two  waited  the 
coming  of  the  dawn.  Those  two  stood  calmly  till  the 
sun  was  up,  and  then  lay  silently  till  he  went  down  in 
the  west.  The  surf-roar  at  the  base  of  the  hill  was 
more  musical  that  night  than  ever,  and  from  time  to 
time  the  watchers  in  the  grove  heard  distinctly  the  tri 
umphant  song  of  a  Mohegan  brave,  welcoming  the  sun 
light  of  the  blessed  land  that  stole  gently  in  on  his  soul. 
The  moon  was  gone  at  midnight.  The  stars  were  clear, 
and,  as  alway,  mournfully  calm.  The  dawn  came  slow 
ly  into  the  eastern  sky,  but  no  form  waited  its  coming 
on  the  summit  of  the  hill.  The  sun  rose,  and,  as  he 
rose,  a  solitary  sea-bird  wheeled  with  a  wild  note,  as 
if  of  triumph,  around  the  hill  top,  and  shrieked  her  de 
fiance  to  the  thousand  men  who  rested  in  the  valley 
below. 

Slowly  and  cautiously  the  islanders  advanced  toward 
the  bluff.  There  was  no  need  of  caution,  for  there  was 
no  tenant  on  the  hill,  living  or  dead  ;  but  as  they  crowd 
ed  up  from  the  forest,  and  looked  in  one  another's  faces 
with  doubtful  awe,  a  hundred  sea-gulls  circled  above 
their  heads  with  wild  screams,  and  the  hoarse  voice  of 
the  ocean  thundered,  as  of  old,  below. 


182  LATER    YEARS. 

And  the  ocean  is  thundering  on  the  shore  with  the 
same  deep  voice  to-day,  and  the  sea-gulls  wheel  in 
swift  circles  above  the  summit  of  the  bluff.  And  if 
you  will  go  at  evening  to  that  sacred  spot,  and  lie  down 
on  the  ground  with  your  ear  pressed  to  the  earth,  you 
will  hear  a  wild  melody  such  as  you  never  heard  else 
where,  that  the  Indian  warriors  fancied  was  the  voice 
of  the  brave  dead  chaunting  old  songs.  I  fancy  it  is 
the  murmur  of  the  sea  among  the  rocks  at  the  base  of 
the  hill. 

It  is  with  great  difficulty  that  I  have  succeeded  in 
writing  so  much,  for  I  have  been  interrupted  frequent 
ly  by  calls  to  other  employments.  First,  there  was  a 
walk  to  the  spring.  There  I  bathed  my  head  in  the 
icy  water,  and  was  much  refreshed  thereby.  Then 
there  was  a  gallop  along  the  sands,  with  a  fair  lady  on 
the  pillion  behind  me.  Then  there  was  a  call  to  the 
house-top  to  see  the  sunset ;  and  then  a  concert  on  the 
front  steps,  which  occupied  till  nearly  midnight,  as 
usual.  And  now  I  am  finishing  this  letter  somewhere 
among  "the  wee  hours,"  the  whole  household  being 
still,  and,  I  trust,  sleeping.  I  am  sure  they  need  sleep, 
for  what  with  midnight  concerts  on  the  front  steps  and 
morning  baths  in  the  surf,  there  isn't  much  rest  obtain 
ed  during  the  night  time. 

Imagine  the  astonishment  of  the  Block  Islanders  the 
other  day  at  seeing  that  elegant  steamer,  the  C.  Van- 
derbilt,  anchored  just  outside  of  the  surf  on  the  east 
side.  She  came  over  with  a  party  from  Stonington, 
and  her  officers  had  their  hands  full  in  exhibiting  her 


THE    SOUTHEAST    BLUFFS.  183 

to  the  islanders  who  boarded  her.  They  had  never 
seen  such  a  craft  here  before,  and  the  women  and  chil 
dren  were  struck  with  exceeding  wonderment  at  the 
splendid  furniture  and  massive  mirrors.  They  had 
never  seen  themselves  at  full  length  before  !  The  fish 
ermen  displayed  their  usual  keenness  for  a  bargain,  and 
demanded  twenty-five  cents  a  head  to  set  the  passen 
gers  on  shore  and  return  them  ;  whereat  the  captain, 
with  his  accustomed  promptitude,  ordered  their  fasts  to 
be  cast  off,  and  set  his  passengers  ashore  in  the  quarter 
boats.  He  procured  the  aid  of  one  man,  with  two  or 
three  boats,  for  a  certain  sum ;  and  I  heard  the  others 
on  shore,  in  the  afternoon,  blessing  that  one  with  left- 
handed  blessings,  and  saying  he  had  prevented  their 
making  fifty  dollars.  Toward  evening  they  were  get 
ting  more  and  more  angry,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  by 
this  time  they  have  not  lynched  the  poor  fellow. 


XXIII. 

Ennfr    <0nm point: i 

Niagara  Falls,  May,  18 — . 

I  AM  writing  within  sound  of  the  roar  of  the  cata 
ract.  In  former  visits  to  Niagara  I  have  not  written 
to  you,  for  I  have  fancied  the  subject  too  trite  and  worn, 
and  I  did  not  like  to  tell  old  tales  over  again  ;  and  I 
write  more  for  the  purpose  of  telling  you  of  persons, 
and  thoughts,  and  incidents  of  travel,  than  to  relate  old 
stories  of  old  routes.  We  travel  for  the  sake  of  seeing 
faces  quite  as  much  as  places,  and  the  dinner-table  at 
the  Cataract  House  is  as  interesting  a  view  as  the  great 
Fall. 

We  left  Stonington  with  the  pleasantest  party  which 
was  ever  made  up  for  a  summer  or  spring  journey,  and, 
though  the  night  was  clear,  the  wind  blew  a  gale  from 
the  northwest,  and  we  did  not  reach  New  York  till  a 
few  minutes  after  seven  in  the  morning.  The  Com 
modore  is  well  manned,  however,  and,  thanks  to  her 
gentlemanly  officers,  our  large  party  of  fifteen  or  twenty 
was  admirably  cared  for.  They  were  not  all  to  accom 
pany  us  as  far  as  the  Falls.  When  we  reached  New 
York  the  Erie  Rail-road  boat  had  left  her  wharf.  Seven 
o'clock  was  the  hour  of  departure,  and  it  was  already 
ten  minutes  after.  Thanks  to  the  kindness  of  the 


ROAD    COMPANIONS.  185 

officers  of  the  Commodore,  a  plank  was  thrown  out  for 
us  before  she  made  fast  to  the  wharf,  and  we  sprang 
ashore.  My  carriage  was  waiting,  and  we  drove  on  a 
run  to  the  foot  of  Courtlandt  Street ;  dashed  on  the  ferry 
boat  at  a  quarter  past  seven  o'clock,  the  horses  in  a 
foam;  crossed  the  river,  and  drove  to  the  Ramapo 
depot,  finding,  as  I  had  hoped,  that  the  Erie  train  had 
been  detained  ten  minutes ;  and  the  conductor  was 
calling  out  to  go  ahead  as  we  drove  up.  With  all  the 
courtesy  possible,  he  waited  till  we  were  comfortably 
seated,  and  then  we  flew  westward.  In  the  evening, 
twenty-four  hours  after  leaving  Stonington,  we  had 
traveled  nearly  five  hundred  miles,  and  had  not  paused 
ten  successive  minutes. 

I  will  not  pause  now  to  speak  of  the  Erie  Rail-road, 
of  which  I  have  often  written  to  you.  Before  I  return 
eastward,  I  will,  by  your  leave,  say  much  in  relation  to 
it,  contenting  myself  now  with  saying  that  no  summer 
tourist  will  fail  to  pass  over  this  route,  which,  for  mag 
nificence  of  scenery,  is  unequaled  by  any  rail-road  line 
in  the  world.  I  used  to  think  that  the  Baltimore  and 
Ohio  Rail-road  was  unsurpassed  in  this  respect,  but  the 
Erie  road  has  no  rival.  The  cars  ring  with  the  con 
stant  exclamations  of  the  astonished  passengers  at  some 
new  beauty,  some  stupendous  work  of  art,  some  fath 
omless  ravine,  some  splendid  waterfall ;  and  to  those 
of  us  who  were  familiar  with  the  banks  of  the  Dela 
ware  in  the  old  times,  when  the  Hudson  River  and  the 
Newburgh  and  Cochecton  turnpike  were  the  route  to 
approach  it,  this  swift  flight  through  the  wilds  where 


186  LATER    YEARS. 

we  formerly  toiled  with  our  rifles  on  our  shoulders  is 
especially  startling  and  astounding.  I  have  seen  an 
advertisement  of  a  summer  hotel  at  White  Lake  !  It 
seems  to  be  profanity  to  introduce  the  vulgar  crowd  to 
these  haunts  of  our  adventurous  boyhood,  and  to  throw 
open  to  public  gaze  the  forests  and  streams  which  were 
known  only  by  the  exquisite  penciling  of  our  friend 
Street,  who  used  to  loiter  thereabouts.  It  seemed 
strange,  I  say,  to  pass  with  crowded  cars  through  those 
wilds,  and  we  looked  around  us  to  see  who  were  with 
us.  There  were  grave  senators  and  laughing  girls, 
Western  farmers  and  Eastern  speculators,  old  and 
young,  rich  and  poor,  happy  and  mourning,  all  kinds 
and  all  classes,  flying  over  those  two  black  lines  which 
lie  along  the  ground.  These  lines  are  poetry.  I  have 
caught  myself  reading  a  hundred  stories  of  the  passers- 
by  as  I  was  walking  along  a  rail-road  track. 

There  was  a  bridal  party  near  us.  We  killed  a  fore 
noon  in  observing  them  ;  and  there  was  a  party  of  sad 
mourners  near  them,  who  occupied  us  during  the  after 
noon.  Let  me  sketch  the  former  party,  so  that,  if  their 
eyes  light  on  this,  they  may  recognize  themselves.  The 
lady  was  small,  under  the  medium  size,  wearing  a  plain 
merino  traveling  dress,  without  ornament  of  any  kind, 
and  a  dark  traveling  hat,  with  broad  blue  ribbon  tied 
under  her  chin.  A  heavy  blue  veil  was  occasionally 
thrown  over  her  head  and  face  while  she  slept.  That 
she  was  intelligent  was  manifest  from  her  appearance, 
as  well  as  from  the  character  of  her  reading,  for  I  caught 
sight  of  De  duincy's  "  Caesars"  and  Hawthorne's  "  House 


ROAD    COMPANIONS.  187 

of  Seven  Gables"  in  her  hands  during  the  day,  neither 
of  which  are  for  common  readers. 

The  gentleman  was  a  broad-shouldered,  stout  young 
man,  with  rather  prominent  features,  and  dark  black 
whiskers,  long  and  pointed  under  the  chin,  in  the  old 
Spanish  style  ;  hair  rather  dark,  overhanging  his  fore 
head,  which  in  turn  overhung  dark  eyes.  He  wore  a 
light  drab  summer  overcoat,  somewhat  elegantly  fin 
ished,  a  high  collar,  and  black  silk  cravat.  There  was 
a  Quakerish  simplicity  about  both  dresses.  A  long,  su 
perb  gentleman's  traveling  shawl  (precisely  like  my 
own)  was  thrown  over  his  lap,  and  wrapped  in  half  a 
dozen  folds  around  the  lady,  which  shawl,  by-the-by, 
seemed  to  be  an  invaluable  traveling  companion,  as  I 
have  often  found  it  myself — it  is  so  much  more  con 
venient  than  a  cloak  or  a  coat.  One  never  needs  to  be 
told  that  a  party  is  a  bridal  party.  The  fact  always 
manifests  itself  by  a  thousand  nameless  attentions, 
glances,  smiles,  exchanges  of  what  the  French  call  "re- 
gardes,"  and  a  mutual  anxiety  that  each  should  see  all 
there  is  to  be  seen  and  enjoy  all  there  is  to  be  enjoyed. 
We  were  considerably  amused  and  edified  by  our  fel 
low-travelers,  and  laid  up  store  of  hints  to  guide  our 
selves,  should  any  of  our  party  ever  form  one  of  such  a 
duet  as  that ;  and  I  may  add  that  the  same  party  ac 
companied  us  to  Niagara,  and  sat  on  our  side  of  the 
breakfast-table  this  morning  at  the  Cataract  House. 

I  said  there  was  another  group  that  attracted  our  at 
tention.  Perhaps  they  did  not  occupy  our  minds  so 
much  as  the  following  day,  on  Seneca  Lake,  when  we 
saw  them  in  the  cabin  of  the  steamer. 


188  LATER    YEARS. 

I  know,  if  the  eyes  of  any  of  that  group  meet  these 
lines,  I  shall  be  pardoned  for  sketching  their  appear 
ance.  The  principal  feature  of  the  party  was  the  face 
of  a  young  lady,  from  whose  sad  eyes  the  light  of  life 
was  almost  gone.  It  was  a  calm  and  once  happy  face, 
for  its  lines  were  delicate  and  beautiful  withal,  and 
somehow  the  lips  seemed  to  be  such  as  in  former  days 
smiles  would  have  loved  to  linger  around.  "We  could 
not  look  unmoved  on  such  a  face,  and  what  made  it  sad 
der  to  see  the  fading  flower  was  that  another  (evident 
ly  her  mother)  watched  sedulously  lest  a  rude  breath  of 
wind  should  touch  her  daughter's  cheek ;  and  both  of 
them  were  dressed  in  the  deepest  mourning,  as  if  some 
one  they  loved  had  gone  but  lately,  whither  this  other 
was  about  to  follow.  It  did  not  appear  that  we  could 
be  of  assistance  in  any  way  to  the  feebleness  of  the  suf 
fering  girl,  and  we  forbore  to  make  any  useless  proffer 
of  services,  but  our  hearts  were  touched  by  her  patient 
face,  and  our  prayers  followed  her,  and  follow  her  yet, 
though  we  can  not  believe  that  she  yet  lingers  on  this 
side  the  river.  "We  fancied  (and  told  each  other  our 
fancies)  all  manner  of  stories  of  that  gentle  one.  "We 
told  over  to  ourselves  the  merry  days  of  girlhood,  the 
gay,  wild  fancies  of  her  youth.  We  wondered  where 
she  lived,  and  whom  she  loved,  and  whether  any  and 
how  many  would  weep  when  she  was  of  the  dust.  Of 
the  dust!  "We  said  the  words,  and  they  startled  us, 
and  we  thought  of  the  June  flowers  blooming  over  her, 
and  the  voices  she  loved  to  hear  making  the  same  old 
melodies,  but  not  for  her,  and  of  the  birds  she  cherish- 


ROAD    COMPANIONS.  189 

ed,  and  the  songs  she  sang,  and  the  hearts  she  glad 
dened  with  her  glad  young  heart,  and  we  thought  a 
thousand  such  sad  things  ;  and  then  came,  as  it  always 
comes  with  the  voice  of  a  gentle  one  in  our  party,  a 
sentence  of  high  hope,  and  we  thought  no  longer  of  the 
grave,  or  the  flowers  above  it,  hut  we  fancied  the  crown 
that  was  waiting  for  her,  and  the  song  which  the  ser 
aphim  were  singing,  yet  without  full  choir,  since  they 
waited  for  one  more  voice !  They  left  us  at  Geneva. 
We  know  not  who  they  were,  or  where  they  went,  but 
if  their  eyes  meet  this,  or  if  her  eyes  have  closed,  and 
others,  through  long  weeping  for  her,  have  grown  dim, 
and  can  read  only  through  tears,  they  may  know  that 
strangers  have  looked  with  no  cold  or  curious  gaze  on 
their  sadness,  and  that  they  were  not  traveling  among 
those  altogether  indifferent  and  selfish.  It  can  scarcely 
be  supposed  that  in  the  deep  sorrow  which  manifestly 
overpowered  them,  they  noticed  those  who  sat  near 
them,  apparently  occupied  with  books,  or  pencils  and 
paper,  or  their  own  gay  conversation,  but  who  never 
theless  exercised  the  right  of  human  nature  to  sympa 
thize  with  its  common  humanity. 

P.S. — Since  writing  the  above,  we  accidentally  met 
a  lady  from  Geneva,  who,  on  hearing  us  speak  of  the 
group  in  the  cars  and  on  the  lake,  immediately  recog 
nized  the  mother  and  daughter,  and  gave  us  the  sad 
addition  to  our  story,  that  the  young  lady,  after  living 
a  very  few  days  at  her  home  in  Geneva,  went  away  by 
the  dark  road.  She  added  some  very  touching  inci 
dents  in  her  history,  which  belong  to  only  a  few  hearts, 


190  LATER    YEARS. 

and  we  may  not  repeat  them  here.  On  reading  over 
what  I  have  written,  I  see  nothing  I  would  change. 
We  had  traveled  a  few  miles  on  the  same  great  journey 
together,  and  she  has  reached  its  end.  We  travel  on, 
strangers  and  friends,  all  with  earnest  faces  toward  the 
rest  that  remaineth  for  some  of  us !  Death  follows  our 
footsteps  constantly.  But  a  few  weeks  ago,  in  the  last 
winter's  gayeties,  I  met  often  a  young  and  happy  face. 
One  evening  she  was  in  the  dance  ;  at  the  next,  my 
friend  Joe  called  my  attention  to  the  fact  that  she  was 
gone.  She,  too,  had  passed  away.  "  And  this,"  said 
rny  cynic  friend,  looking  on  the  crowded  rooms  and  the 
swift  flight  of  the  dance,  "  and  this  is  what  men  call 
life  !"  "  Faith,  Joe,  yes,"  was  my  reply.  "  And  what 
else  is  it?  Smiles  that  mean  nothing,  thoughtless 
words,  a  glare  of  noonday,  a  dance,  a  feast,  a  close 
wrapping  of  your  cloak  about  you,  and  a  shiver  as  you 
step  out  into  the  darkness  !  Isn't  that  life,  Joe  ?"  The 
cynic  smiled,  and  even  in  that  gay  scene  pointed  his 
finger  hopefully  upward.  But  see — I  am  preaching  a 
sermon  in  my  postscript ! 


XXIV. 


n  r  in  ti  g. 


New  York,  September,  18  —  . 

THE  pleasant  light  of  a  cool  morning  falls  gently  on 
the  floor  of  my  room  ;  and  when  I  opened  the 
window  a  few  moments  ago,  the  fresh  breeze  from  the 
northwest  sent  my  paper  flying  across  the  carpet,  and 
scattered  my  pens  in  every  direction. 

On  my  left  is  seated  my  friend  Joe,  who  has  come 
to  visit  me  for  a  little  while.  He  is  living  now  in  a 
home  among  the  hills,  and  he  sometimes  drops  down 
on  me  of  a  sudden,  and  startles  me  with  his  unexpect 
ed  presence.  Yesterday  morning  he  came,  and  we  have 
talked  a  day  and  a  night  away,  and  he  is  now  reading 
while  I  write. 

Our  last  subject  of  conversation  was  the  month  and 
its  memories,  whereby  I  am  reminded  of  the  morning 
in  September  when  we  were  in  the  cabin  together,  of 
which  we  have  talked  for  an  hour. 

It  was  such  a  morning  as  this,  some  ten  years  ago, 
that,  having  set  out  for  the  forest,  we  arrived  at  the 
bridge,  and,  leaving  our  horses  as  usual  there,  entered 
cover,  and  made  our  way  up  toward  the  creek.  The 
first  five  miles  of  our  tramp  was  performed  in  almost 
perfect  silence,  for  we  were  planning,  each  with  him- 


192  LATER    YEARS. 

self,  the  fall  sport.  I  was  cogitating  on  the  probable 
success  of  any  attempt  to  coax  trout  to  take  a  fly,  and 
Willis,  as  he  subsequently  told  me,  was  thinking  over 
the  various  approaches  to  a  certain  hollow,  in  which  he 
had  twice  found  black  bears.  About  six  miles  above 
the  bridge  there  is  an  oak  opening,  where  a  little  stream, 
after  dashing  down  a  mountain  side,  trickles  slowly 
over  a  gravel  bed  into  the  river,  and  where  the  large 
old  hills,  entirely  free  from  underbrush,  make  a  dense 
shade,  in  which  the  grass  grows  luxuriantly,  and  the 
wild  flowers  bloom  in  profusion.  The  sun  steals  down 
to  the  grass  in  threads  of  light,  and  the  branches  above 
form  arches  of  green,  which  shut  out  the  sky  entirely. 
"We  approached  this  spot  in  the  usual  way,  along  the 
edge  of  the  water,  and  I  was  carefully  looking  to  my 
footsteps,  while  Joe  was  four  paces  behind  me,  when  I 
was  startled  by  the  crack  of  his  rifle  over  my  head,  and, 
looking  up,  saw  that  he  had  shot  a  partridge  that  was 
sitting  on  a  fallen  tree  on  the  side  of  the  brook.  It  was 
already  afternoon,  and,  being  well  disposed  to  lunch,  we 
had  a  fire  kindled,  and  the  partridge  was  hanging  over 
it  in  a  few  minutes.  The  long  vine  to  which  we  fast 
ened  the  bird  hung  from  the  branch  of  a  sapling,  and 
the  pieces  of  the  old  tree  blazed  up  finely  about  him. 
In  fifteen  minutes,  or  thereabout,  he  was  cooked  to 
perfection,  and  our  case  furnished  salt,  and  Joe's  pock 
ets,  on  being  turned  out,  produced  a  quantity  of  crack 
ers,  and  a  couple  of  smoked  herring  (none  of  your  dry, 
Maine  sticks,  but  a  pair  of  regular  buckies).  We  had 
no  birch  bark  whereof  to  make  those  plates  which  add 


A    PLEASANT    MORNING.  193 

so  pleasant  an  aroma  to  food  in  the  woods  ;  but  we  had 
good  appetites,  and  in  a  brief  space  of  time  we  had  de 
molished  the  bird,  and  were  wiping  our  fingers  on  the 
leaves,  for  want  of  better  napkins. 

Then  stretched  on  the  grass  by  the  bank  of  the  river, 
which  lapsed  by  us  gently  over  a  rocky  bed,  we  lounged 
an  hour,  and  planned  the  fall  campaign.  "We  had  not 
told  Black  that  we  should  come,  and  he  would  not  ex 
pect  us.  Possibly  he  was  away.  But  the  cabin  was 
never  locked,  and  we  should  find  the  larder  well  sup 
plied.  It  was  not  often  empty.  The  dogs  had  been 
with  Black  all  summer.  Nora  was  young,  and  Echo 
was  also  in  training.  John  and  Leo,  and  a  lithe  and 
beautiful  hound  called  Pedro,  were  all  in  perfect  condi 
tion.  We  might  safely  calculate  on  a  season  of  rare 
sport,  and  we  were  proposing  to  commence  early  the 
next  morning,  when  I  caught  the  sound  of  a  dog  on  the 
mountain.  Springing  to  our  feet,  we  listened  five  min 
utes,  and  then  knew  where  they  were.  It  was  impos 
sible  to  be  mistaken,  for  we  knew  every  inch  of  the 
country  for  twenty  miles  square.  They  were  in  the 
cedar  hollow,  three  miles  away,  and  were  running  up 
the  glen.  If  the  deer  took  the  mountain  at  the  hickory 
swale,  he  would  not  come  to  the  river ;  but  if  he  kept 
on  up  the  hollow,  he  would  turn  immediately  before  he 
reached  Bill  Gardiner's  cabin ;  and,  passing  over  the 
ridge  at  the  big  gully,  would  come  down  to  the  water. 
There  then  remained  but  one  chance  against  his  com 
ing  near  us,  for  we  were  on  one  of  the  best  runs  in  the 
country.  This  was,  that,  if  the  swamp  path  were  thick, 


194  LATER    YEARS. 

he  would  turn  off  in  the  middle  of  it,  and  take  water 
two  miles  to  the  northward.  But  the  wind  was  south 
erly.  The  long  limbs  and  branches  of  a  peculiar  wil 
low-like  bush,  which  abounded  in  the  swamp,  lay  over 
the  path  only  when  the  wind  was  from  the  northward, 
and  we  therefore  took  our  places  to  wait  the  result. 
Now  louder,  now  fainter,  as  they  passed  the  hollows,  or 
entered  denser  forests,  we  could  hear  the  cry  of  the 
hounds  as  they  followed  the  game.  At  length,  by  a 
burst  of  music,  we  knew  they  had  reached  the  swale, 
and  the  next  instant  we  lost  their  voices.  It  was  all 
right.  They  had  followed  up  the  hollow,  and  we  should 
be  sure  to  hear  them  when  they  crossed  the  ridge.  At 
length  it  came — full,  rich,  and  clear  as  a  bugle,  the  voice 
of  old  John,  which  I  always  knew  among  a  thousand. 
But,  now  that  he  was  speaking  and  the  rest  were  silent, 
I  knew  that  the  deer  must  have  doubled  on  them,  or 
played  some  trick  by  which  they  had  separated.  The 
next  instant  explained  it,  for  we  heard  Pedro's  sharp 
cry  down  the  hollow  again,  as  he  followed  the  curious 
windings  of  that  most  curious  ravine. 

It  was  now  questionable  whether  any  other  person 
was  near  us  on  the  run.  We  could  hardly  think  the 
dogs  were  off  on  a  hunt  by  themselves.  A  few  croaks 
of  a  frog  from  Joe,  succeeded  by  the  hoot  of  an  owl 
from  myself,  echoed  through  the  wood,  but  received  no 
answer ;  and  the  next  moment  we  heard  John's  voice 
coming  down  the  hill  toward  the  elder  swamp.  Then 
he  came  straight  through  it,  and  an  instant  afterward, 
far  in  advance  of  tlie  dog,  flying  like  the  wind,  with 


A    PLEASANT    MORNING.  195 

long,  graceful  leaps,  four  bucks  came  over  the  brush  and 
down  the  bed  of  the  brook.  The  leader  was  a  splendid 
fellow.  His  fine  head  was  thrown  up,  and  his  antlers 
lay  back  on  his  neck,  as  he  snuffed  the  smoke  of  our 
fire,  and  flashed  his  eye  around  to  discover  its  cause. 
But  the  speed  was  headlong,  and  he  did  not  hesitate. 
Joe  lay  in  a  tuft  of  grass  near  a  stump.  I  was  behind 
the  fallen  tree  I  before  mentioned.  The  opening  was 
a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  wide,  and  a  score  of  leaps 
brought  the  deer  almost  upon  us. 

At  that  instant  came  a  long,  shrill  scream,  like  the 
panther's  cry,  from  across  the  river,  and,  without  look 
ing  over  my  shoulder,  I  knew  that  Black  was  there. 
Joe  heard  it  also.  Manifestly  we  ought  to  let  the  game 
pass  us  to  take  the  water.  Two  of  them  we  might 
fairly  claim,  and  Black  should  have  a  chance  for  the 
third  or  fourth.  Joe  uttered  a  guttural  croak,  which 
was  as  distinctly  significant  as  words  could  be,  and  I 
replied  in  the  same  dialect.  Accordingly,  we  both  lay 
quiet.  They  dashed  down  toward  us.  As  they  passed 
within  a  dozen  yards  of  me,  they  shied  with  fright,  and 
leaped  suddenly  with  doubly  as  long  leaps,  but  the  next 
instant  they  passed  Joe  and  saw  him  distinctly.  Never 
was  there  seen  a  wilder  fright.  It  was  painful  to  see 
the  strained  limbs  and  staring  eyes  of  the  noble  animals 
as  with  one  frightened  look  they  sprang  into  the  water. 
It  was  shoal  for  ten  rods,  and  they  were  making  swift 
progress  toward  deep  water  as  we  rose  to  our  feet. 

"  Take  the  last  one,  Joe,"  I  exclaimed,  as  I  sent  my 
bullet  after  the  last  but  one,  who  was  a  dark  red  deer, 


196  LATER    YEARS. 

with  five  prongs  to  his  antlers.  I  did  not  hear  Joe's 
rifle,  which  cracked  simultaneously  with  mine.  The 
last  one  fell.  Joe's  aim  was,  as  usual,  unerring.  But 
the  one  that  I  thought  to  stop  kept  steadily  on,  and  my 
ball  went  skipping  over  the  water.  A  moment  after 
ward  Black  made  his  appearance,  and  his  ball  stopped 
the  first  one.  But  he  was  in  the  middle  of  the  river, 
and  his  body  drifted  down,  and  we  never  recovered  it. 
The  two  which  remained  now  wheeled.  They  were 
swimming,  but  regained  footing  in  a  moment ;  and  as 
we  disappeared  behind  trees,  they  began  to  make  for 
the  very  point  at  which  we  stood.  They  came  along 
rather  leisurely  than  otherwise,  made  very  even  jumps 
side  by  side,  and  seemed  to  have  forgotten  their  alarm. 
I  had  John  lying  by  my  side.  He  was  impatient  to 
meet  them,  and  I  was  about  to  let  him  go,  when  I  ob 
served  a  doubtful  footstep  of  one  of  the  deer.  I  sig 
nalized  Willis  to  keep  quiet.  The  two  came  along  out 
of  the  water,  but  as  they  reached  the  bank,  they  came 
more  and  more  slowly,  until  one  of  them  staggered  and 
fell  on  the  grass  a  few  rods  from  me.  The  other  stop 
ped  by  his  side,  and  stretched  his  head  down  to  look  at 
his  fallen  companion.  The  latter,  slowly  lifting  him 
self  on  his  fore  feet,  tried  to  rise,  but,  finding  it  impos 
sible,  lay  down  easily,  with  his  head  raised  up,  and  his 
eyes  fixed  imploringly  on  the  eyes  of  his  ally  and  friend. 
For  more  than  a  minute  this  scene  continued,  while 
we  looked  on,  and  then  the  unhurt  deer,  catching  sight 
of  Black  on  the  opposite  shore,  made  two  swift  circles 
round  the  fallen  one,  dashed  toward  the  mountain,  then 
back  again  to  look  into  the  large  blue  oves  of  hi 


A    PLEASANT    MORNING.  197 

friend,  and  then  rushed  like  the  wind  into  the  thicket, 
and  was  gone.  I  would  not  have  shot  him  for  a  thou 
sand  dollars. 

My  aim  had  not  been  so  bad.  The  ball  had  entered 
under  the  fore  shoulder,  and  came  out  in  front.  The 
deer  did  not  feel  it  so  much  in  the  water,  the  cold  of 
which,  perhaps,  for  the  moment,  prevented  the  bleed 
ing  ;  but  as  he  came  out  his  strength  left  him,  and  he 
was  dying  as  I  advanced  to  draw  my  knife  across  his 
throat. 

I  have  often  heretofore  told  you  of  that  pitiful  ex 
pression  in  the  large  blue  eye  of  a  dying  deer.  It  is 
the  most  painful  thing,  after  all,  about  our  forest  sports, 
and  I  always  regret  the  death  of  the  game  when  I  see 
that  mournful  eye. 

Joe  recovered  his  venison  from  the  water,  and  we 
soon  disposed  the  saddles  for  carrying.  It  was  a  long 
and  weary  tramp  we  had  that  afternoon  to  the  cabin, 
each  of  us  loaded  with  half  a  hundred  of  venison,  be 
sides  our  rifles,  and  small  traps  of  various  sorts.  Black 
met  us  with  the  canoe  two  miles  below  the  cabin,  and 
we  poled  up  against  the  current.  But  the  sun  was 
setting  as  we  reached  the  mouth  of  the  creek,  and  the 
white  face  of  the  haunted  rock  was  silvered  with  the 
light  of  the  rising  moon.  How  we  did  eat  that  night ! 
The  memory  of  such  an  appetite  is  pleasant  in  these 
moderate  days,  and  venison  is  never  so  good  as  in  Sep 
tember — never  so  palatable  as  within  four  hours  after 
death,  and  was  never  so  well  cooked  or  so  well  eaten 
any  where  as  it  used  to  be  in  Owl  Creek  Cabin.  Dis 
pute  mo  who  dare ! 


XXV. 

.51 


Stonington,  September,  18  —  . 

INVENT,  if  you  can,  a  more  uncomfortable  position 
than  was  my  office  in  Wall  Street  yesterday  morn 
ing.  The  heat  of  the  summer  was  over,  I  had  imagined, 
and  so,  most  unsuspiciously,  I  came  "back  to  New  York 
and  commenced  to  work,  thinking  to  make  up  "by  hard 
labor  for  a  long  period  of  time  lost.  How  was  I  mis 
taken  !  This  hot  weather  came  on  me  like  a  weight, 
and  I,  who  had  grown  stout  and  tall  with  my  pride  of 
health  in  my  summer  travels,  wilted  down  instantly, 
and  was  sick.  You  know  my  old  resort  when  so  caught. 
It  is  but  to  manage  the  coolest  possible  conveyance 
down  to  the  Battery,  and  I  am  off.  Accordingly,  I  was 
no  sooner  satisfied  that  the  weather  was  actually  hot, 
and  no  hoax,  than  I  started.  We  found  the  Vanderbilt 
lying  in  her  old  place.  It  was  already  cool  by  antici 
pation  as  we  went  on  board  of  her,  and  the  familiar 
faces  of  her  officers  were  pleasant  to  see,  after  we  had 
traveled  so  many  ways.  The  decks  were  broad  and 
airy  as  of  old,  and,  having  been  first  assured  of  comfort 
able  arrangements  for  the  night,  we  selected  a  cool  seat 
on  the  after  deck,  and  were  soon  gliding  along  in  the 
most  glorious  moonlight  that  your  eye  ever  drank  in. 


A    SEPTEMBER    DAY.  199 

I  say  it  was  soon ;  for  so  delicious  was  the  first  breath 
of  air,  that  we  forgot  time  while  we  breathed  it ;  and  T 
verily  believe  we  should  have  sat  all  night  in  the  self 
same  spot,  had  not  a  call  to  tea  aroused  us.  We  re 
turned,  after  disposing  of  that  business,  to  the  after- 
deck,  and  the  hours  flew  by  with  magical  speed  as  we 
passed  through  the  silver  sea,  reaching  Stonington  at  a 
little  after  midnight. 

Scarcely  was  I  awake  this  morning,  when  I  was  met 
by  a  proposition  to  go  to  Fisher's  Island  to  shoot  plover. 
Without  reflection,  I  accepted  the  invitation,  and,  hav 
ing  one  of  my  guns  down  here,  with  all  the  necessary 
accoutrements,  I  went  down  to  the  wharf  where  the 
boat  was  waiting.  The  best  shooting-ground  on  Fish 
er's  Island  is  about  seven  miles  from  here,  and,  with 
the  light  breeze  then  blowing,  the  prospect  o£  reaching 
it  seemed  distant.  Nevertheless,  we  hoisted  sail  and 
drifted  slowly  out.  In  about  ten  minutes,  however,  a 
fresh  breeze  sprang  up,  and  in  half  an  hour  we  passed 
the  light-boat  on  the  middle  ground,  and  in  about  ten 
minutes  afterward  found  ourselves  in  a  thick  fog.  At 
this  instant  the  wind  left  us,  and  the  ebb  tide,  running 
strongly  out  to  sea,  bade  fair  to  carry  us  out  to  Block 
Island.  To  cap  the  climax,  when  we  talked  of  anchor 
ing,  we  were  without  anchor,  that  useful  article  having 
been  somehow  disposed  of. 

Do  not  ask  me  to  relate  the  desperate  exertions  at 
the  sweeps  which  were  now  made  by  my  remarkably 

quiet  friend,  S ,  and  the  rest  of  our  party.  Two 

hours  of  steady  pulling  across  a  strong  tide,  and  partly 


200  LATER    YEARS. 

heading  it,  was  not  a  very  easy  piece  of  work,  and  we 
were  inexpressibly  relieved  at  the  first  glimpse  of  land, 
which  proved  to  be  not  very  far  from  the  point  we 
wished  to  make.  We  had  not  been  to  Fisher's  Island, 
and  had  no  trouble  with  a  load  of  plover,  as  we  might 
have  had  in  case  we  had  reached  the  island. 

Immediately  after  returning,  I  proceeded  on  a  coast 
ing  expedition,  being  determined  to  make  as  much  out 
of  a  foggy  day  as  possible,  and  fancying  a  coasting  voy 
age  much  safer  under  the  circumstances.  Accordingly, 

C and  T and  myself  might  have  been  seen 

looming  up  in  the  fog  like  giants,  while,  with  spears 
and  nets,  we  lifted  into  our  boat  such  unsuspecting 
crabs  (anglice  "  paddlers")  as  we  could  inveigle  into 
our  toils.  We  pushed  our  boat  slowly  along  the  flats, 
and  took  about  three  dozen  fine  large  fellows  in  a  short 
space  of  time.  By  this,  it  was  nearly  evening,  and  we 
came  ashore.  The  fog  lay  thickly  all  around  us,  while 
above  there  was  a  blue  tinge,  which  at  the  zenith  was 
the  clear,  deep  sky. 

And  now  came  with  the  twilight,  thronging  the  busy 
brain,  remembrances  of  good  old  times  and  September 
days  agone,  long,  long  ago,  in  the  times  which  are  al 
ways  pleasant  to  remember ;  and  as  in  my  last  I  de 
scribed  to  you  the  morning  of  a  September  day,  so  now 
was  I  reminded  of  a  forenoon  in  that  same  season, 
which  was  impressed  on  my  memory  by  a  singular  and 
startling  incident. 

Very  beautifully  had  that  morning  broken,  with  blue, 
and  gray,  and  crimson  clouds,  preceding  the  coming 


A    SEPTEMBER    DAY.  201 

of  the  sun.  I  saw  it  from  a  high  peak  of  land,  three 
miles  to  the  eastward  of  the  cabin,  and  no  sunrise  ever 
shed  a  holier  light  on  the  world.  The  stars  sank  back 
into  the  sky,  one  by  one,  until  the  full  light  came  flood 
ing  up  a  mountain  gorge,  right  down  which,  away  in 
the  distance,  rose  the  great  sun.  The  sky  was  below 
me,  it  seemed,  on  that  horizon,  and  the  sun  was  not  on 
my  level  till  he  was  nearly  half  an  hour  high.  So  it 
appeared  to  me,  as  I  lay  on  a  rock,  wrapped  in  a  blan 
ket,  waiting  for  the  coming  of  day.  I  had  slept  in  a 
hollow  just  Ijelow,  and  my  fire  was  blazing  brightly 
now,  but  I  had  nothing  to  cook  on  it.  I  was  hungry 
and  thirsty,  but  water  was  scarce  on  such  high  ground, 
and — a  flock  of  wild  pigeons  were  just  then  lighting  in 
the  top  of  a  tree,  which  grew  up  from  the  gorge  below, 
and  was  nearly  on  my  level. 

I  sent  a  bullet  into  the  tree  at  random,  and  as  they 
rose,  some  fifty  of  them,  I  sent  another  into  the  flutter 
ing  flock,  which  dropped  two,  one  torn  to  pieces  by  the 
ball,  and  the  other  in  nearly  as  bad  a  condition.  Scarce 
ly  had  I  fired  a  shot  when  I  heard  an  answering  sound, 
which  I  thought  was  an  echo  ;  but,  as  I  received  no  re 
ply  to  my  second  barrel,  I  supposed  that  I  had  roused 
some  wanderer  from  a  lonesome  night's  sleep.  Such 
proved  to  be  the  case ;  for,  as  I  went  down  the  hill  to 
pick  up  my  pigeons,  I  met  a  man  ascending,  whose  ap 
pearance  was  remarkable  in  the  extreme.  He  was  a 
tall,  gaunt  man,  stout-limbed  and  large-featured,  but 
with  a  forehead  and  eye  that  impressed  themselves  in 
one's  memory.  There  was  a  pleasant  smile  in  the  lat- 
T2 


202  LATER    YEARS. 

ter,  which  seemed  to  be  constantly  combating  a  frown 
of  melancholy  on  the  former.  At  first  you  thought  him 
a -misanthrope,  and  immediately  afterward  he  seemed 
the  picture  of  good  humor  and  fun.  His  first  words 
were  startling,  for  I  had  little  expectation  of  hearing 
Greek  in  that  part  of  the  world,  and  especially  at  that 
time  and  place.  But  a  happy  memory  of  college  days 
enabled  me  to  understand  that  he  was  quoting  the 
Greek  Testament,  and  asking  me  what  I  had  to  eat. 
My  reply  was  brief  and  intelligible.  I  pointed  to  the 
pigeons,  and  extracted  a  piece  of  jerked  venison  from 
my  pocket.  "Capital!"  said  he,  in  good  English,  and 
with  a  fine  voice,  "  capital !  I  have  a  buck  lying  down 
in  the  valley,  and  between  us  we  shall  make  a  break 
fast." 

Nothing  loth,  I  joined  him,  and  found,  as  he  had  said, 
a  fine  young  buck  lying  on  the  ground  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill.  He  had  shot  it  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening  pre 
vious,  and  carelessly  left  it  lying  without  dressing  it  at 
all ;  and  if  the  night  had  not  been  cool  and  dry,  the 
game,  to  my  taste  at  least,  would  have  been  spoiled. 
As  it  was,  I  laid  him  open,  and  soon  took  off  enough  of 
the  hide  to  enable  me  to  get  at  a  piece  of  the  haunch ; 
and  while  I  was  engaged  at  that,  the  stranger  sat  pick 
ing  the  pigeon  which  was  not  torn  to  pieces. 

I  remember  that  breakfast  most  distinctly.  We  sat 
on  a  fallen  tree,  and  watched  our  cookery.  There  was 
a  steak  broiling  on  some  bright  coals,  while  a  heap  of 
loose  brush  blazed  up  around  a  large  piece  of  the 
haunch,  and  first  smoked  and  then  cooked  it.  The  pig- 


A    SEPTEMBER    DAY.  203 

eon  was  broiling  on  a  flat,  thin  piece  of  stone,  which 
was  one  of  our  favorite  and  most  artistic  ways  of  cook 
ing  a  small  bird.  The  jerked  venison  was  in  condition 
to  eat  without  cooking,  but  my  new  friend  shaved  a 
small  quantity  of  it  in  very  thin  slices,  and  laid  it  on  a 
stone  near  the  fire,  where  it  gradually  shriveled  up  in 
little  rolls,  which,  with  salt,  proved  most  palatable. 
Then  we  ate,  and  we  drank  water  from  a  stream  which 
trickled  slowly  through  the  leaves  and  grass  at  our  feet. 
All  those  mountain  gorges  have  streams  of  spring  wa 
ter  gushing  through  them.  It  was  eight  o'clock  when 
we  finished  our  breakfast ;  and  Leo,  having  watched  us 
patiently  to  the  end,  finished  up  what  we  left. 

It  was  a  remarkable  feature  of  our  forest  life  that 
we  had  so  little  curiosity  about  the  origin  of  men  we 
met.  It  mattered  nothing  whether  they  were  of  high 
er  or  lower  class.  "We  met  them,  hunted,  ate,  and 
slept  with  them,  and  forgot  them  till  we  met  again. 

But  somehow  I  fancied  this  man  more  of  a  character 
than  I  had  yet  seen  in  the  woodland,  and  this  not  so 
much  from  what  he  said  as  from  what  he  did.  He 
talked  but  little,  yet  he  ate  in  such  a  way,  and  man 
aged  his  teeth  and  lips  in  such  a  peculiar  fashion,  that, 
while  I  could  not  describe  it,  I  nevertheless  knew  it  an 
evidence  of  his  claim  to  rank  and  distinction. 

You  smile.  Pray  what  claim  is  better  ?  You  possi 
bly  might  imagine  dress,  or  tone,  or  knowledge  of  the 
world,  or  some  such  thing.  But  I  chose  to  judge  from 
his  eating.  Nor  was  I  mistaken. 

We  trudged  up  the  ravine  together,  and  Leo  follow- 


204  LATER    YEARS. 

ed  us.  Willis  was  to  meet  me  at  noon  in  the  lied 
Deer's  Swamp,  a  spot  which  often  served  us  as  a  ren 
dezvous.  Thither  I  accordingly  went,  and  my  friend 
accompanied  me,  our  conversation  turning  on  the  forest 
and  the  game. 

Passing  down  a  little  slope,  covered  thickly  with 
underbrush,  which  was  difficult  to  penetrate,  my  com 
panion  suddenly  paused,  and,  assuming  a  tragic  air, 
began  to  spout  Shakspeare.  Never  was  I  so  astonish 
ed.  The  truth  flashed  across  me  in  an  instant.  He 
was  insane  !  A  pleasant  fix,  this  !  Alone  in  the  for 
est  with  a  man  whose  vagaries  might  at  any  moment 
prompt  him  to  level  his  rifle  at  me.  And  the  pleas 
antness  was  increased  by  the  fact  that  he  was  pouring 
out  Macbeth,  and  the  whole  dialogue,  while  he  ap 
proached  with  alarming  speed  to  the  "lay  on,  Mac- 
duff,"  of  which  I  fully  expected  a  practical  illustration. 
Suddenly,  and  to  my  terror,  he  paused,  leaned  forward, 
raised  his  rifle  toward  me,  and  presented  me  a  most 
startling  view  down  the  muzzle.  "With  my  eyes  fix 
ed  on  him,  at  a  distance  of  ten  paces,  I  thought  it  pos 
sible  to  look  him  down.  Neither  of  us  spoke  for  ten 
seconds,  when  the  flash  came,  and  I  stood  unharm 
ed  ;  but  a  doe,  which  had  strayed  down  toward  us,  and 
had  caught  his  eye,  and  suspended  his  Shakspearian 
spouting,  sprang  by  me  with  the  blood  streaming  from 
her  side.  The  blood  was  too  plenty  for  a  very  bad 
wound,  and  I  was  quite  too  flurried  to  think  of  shoot 
ing.  In  fact,  I  was  surprised  to  find  myself  alive. 
But,  as  she  disappeared  in  the  thicket  below,  we  heard 


A   SEPTEMBER    DAY.  205 

the  crack  of  a  rifle  which  I  recognized  as  Joe's.  My 
astonishment  may  be  imagined  when  my  tall  friend, 
who  had  not  moved  a  foot,  suddenly  broke  out  precise 
ly  where  he  had  left  off,  and  continued  his  vociferous 
quotation.  I  stopped  only  long  enough  to  look  once 
into  his  face,  then  started  on  the  run.  His  rifle  was 
not  loaded,  and  had  but  one  barrel,  and  I  was  safe  so 
far.  The  chances  were  in  his  favor  among  the  bush, 
for  length  of  legs  was  decidely  ahead  of  clearness  of 
intellect.  My  only  object  was  to  reach  Joe's  comfort 
able  presence.  I  don't  believe  the  stranger  saw  me. 
He  did  not  flinch  a  hair  as  he  shot,  nor  as  I  started, 
and  when  I  crossed  the  ridge  I  looked  back,  and  he  was 
standing  in  the  same  spot,  and  I  caught  the  tones  of  his 
voice  in  the  same  style  as  before.  For  aught  I  know 
to  the  contrary,  he  is  standing  there  yet,  for  I  never  saw 
him  again. 

But  I  heard  his  history.  Black  had  picked  it  up, 
and  when  we  reached  the  cabin  that  night,  told  it  to 
us.  It  was  a  sorrowful  tale  of  the  crime  and  outlawry 
of  a  son,  and  the  death  of  a  gentle  wife  and  daughter. 
I  am  persuaded  that  these  lines  may  reach  the  eyes  of 
some  who  are  interested  in  his  fate,  and  I  spare  them 
the  pain  of  reciting  his  story.  I  believe  he  is  living 
yet  and  hunting  yet,  for  his  passionate  fondness  of  the 
chase  clung  to  him  after  his  mind  wandered.  I  shall 
not  soon  forget  the  fright  he  gave  me,  though  I  have 
long  ago  forgiven  him. 


XXYI. 


September  16,  18—. 

IT  lacked  yet  an  hour  of  daylight,  but  we  had  a 
long  walk  to  reach  our  stands,  and,  although  we 
were  somewhat  weary,  and  had  had  hut  a  short  night's 
rest,  we  were  still  bright  enough  and  wide  enough 
awake  to  know  the  value  of  time,  and  dressed  ourselves 
with  all  the  care  which  could  be  expected  of  men  who 
had  forgotten  the  necessity  of  matches,  and  dared  not 
shoot  their  guns  in  a  house  for  the  sake  of  lighting  a 
candle.  The  farm-house  in  which  we  had  found  very 
comfortable  quarters  lay  in  a  hollow,  and,  as  we  had 
only  reached  it  at  nine  o'clock  the  night  before,  on  foot, 
through  the  hills,  we  had  little  idea  of  how  the  country 
lay  around  us.  I  remembered  it  fifteen  years  ago,  but 
had  not  been  there  since,  and  might  well  be  excused 
for  my  forgetfulness  of  roads,  hills,  and  trees,  especially 
in  a  dark  morning,  when  I  had  but  just  awoke  from  a 
feather-bed-sleep.  (The  first  sleep  in  feathers,  by-the- 
way,  that  I  have  been  guilty  of  in  those  fifteen  years.) 
As  we  stepped  out  in  the  starlight,  we  were  sur 
prised  (as  all  are  at  the  first  glance)  at  seeing  the  win 
ter  constellations  over  our  heads.  The  finger  of  Orion 


PIGEON    SHOOTING.  207 

pointed  at  the  head  of  Taurus,  and  the  bright  star  of 
the  gipsies  was  in  the  zenith. 

A  walk  of  half  or  three  quarters  of  an  hour  brought 
us  to  the  hill,  up  which  we  toiled  slowly  and  sleepily. 
For  fifteen  minutes  neither  of  the  three  had  opened  his 
lips  for  any  purpose  but  to  gape,  and  we  might  be  re 
garded,  without  any  stretch  of  the  imagination,  as  per 
sons  seeking,  with  a  determined  air,  an  opportunity  of 
"  inspecting  the  elephant." 

I  confess  that  I  lacked  the  excitement  of  hunting. 
It  was  so  long  since  I  had  shot  any  thing  that  has 
wings,  that  I  had  almost  forgotten  how  to  use  my  fowl 
ing-piece,  and  then  the  circumstances  were  all  so  dif 
ferent  from  my  usual  hunting  expeditions,  that  I  did 
not  feel  at  all  as  if  I  were  going  out  to  shoot.  At 
length,  the  top  being  reached,  I  threw  myself  on  the 
ground  under  the  lee  of  a  rock,  and  waited  daybreak. 

The  hill  was  a  bold  bluff,  cleared  on  the  summit,  but 
wooded  thickly  to  within  a  few  rods  of  my  position. 
The  ridge  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  long,  and  we  placed 
ourselves  at  equal  distances  along  it,  and,  each  one  en 
deavoring  to  imagine  himself  warm,  kept  silence,  and 
watched  the  east. 

Did  you  ever  happen  to  know  a  person  who  was  in 
the  habit  of  getting  up  early  in  the  morning  ?  I  never 
did ;  I've  heard  a  great  deal  about  it,  and  suffered  an 
immense  deal  in  the  way  of  submitting  to  disquisitions 
on  the  subject,  but  I  never  saw  a  living  specimen  of  an 
early  riser.  If  lying  in  bed  late  be  a  sin,  as  some  would 
have  it,  then  there's  an  end  of  all  debate  on  the  doc- 


208  LATER    YEARS. 

trine  of  total  depravity.  That  sin  is  innate.  No  man 
was  born  to  early  rising.  It  is  contrary  to  nature  and 
comfort ;  and  a  cup  of  coffee  is  so  much  better  at  nine 
than  at  six  o'clock,  that,  if  it  be  one  of  the  inventions 
of  the  devil,  as  I  have  heard  some  late  sleepers  (but 
strenuous  advocates  of  early  rising)  say,  why — I  must 
say  it's  an  invention  I'm  especially  fond  of. 

You  never  know  that  you  are  asleep  until  you  are 
in  that  half-dreamy  state  that  precedes  total  waking. 
Then  is  the  time  to  enjoy  the  blessing  of  slumber,  to 
worship  old  Somnus  with  the  drooping  eyelid  and  way 
ward,  flitting,  fairy  fancies  that  he  loves  so  well. 

If  there  is  an  object  in  view,  a  steamer  or  a  rail-car, 
a  hunt,  or  even  a  book  to  read,  or  a  letter  to  write,  I 
am  always  ready  to  wake  and  rise.  But  that  man 
who,  for  the  mere  sake  of  early  rising,  wears  a  pair  of 
red  eyes  all  day,  and  looks  and  talks  as  sleepily  as  if 
he  had  been  up  all  night,  is  a  martyr  to  a  piece  of  folly 
I  have  no  sympathy  with.  He  doesn't  know  how  deli- 
ciously  pleasant  it  is  to  watch  the  sun-rays  slowly  creep 
ing  across  the  curtain,  and  look  up  at  the  wall,  and 
think,  and  think,  and  think. 

He  doesn't  know  how  merrily  the  pilgrim  thoughts 
go  through  the  mind,  returning  from  the  shrines  of  love, 
and  glorious  hope,  and  golden  memory,  toward  which 
they  traveled  in  the  solemn  night  time,  and  before 
which  they  knelt  and  worshipped,  offering  the  incense 
of  truthful  recollection ;  he  doesn't  know  of  the  calm 
thoughts  after  sleep,  the  holy  reflections,  the  prayerful 
gratitude  ;  but,  waking  from  his  slumber,  he  starts  up 


PIGEON    SHOOTING.  209 

as  if  ashamed  of  sleeping,  and  bowing,  perhaps,  but  an 
instant,  as  a  sort  of  duty,  to  thank  God  for  a  night's 
rest,  plunges  into  the  sunlight  and  the  world,  and  deals 
with  them  until  he  sleeps  again.  Oh,  there's  a  luxury 
between  sleeping  and  waking !  and  that's  the  hour  to 
pass  in  thanks  and  calm  preparation  for  the  day. 
There's  no  hour  like  it  for  communion  with  the  pure, 
the  holy,  the  beautiful — no  hour  like  it  for  strengthen 
ing  the  soul.  "Who  can  say  in  what  land  it  has  been 
roving  while  the  body  rested,  or  what  high  converse  it 
has  held  with  the  spiritual,  the  heavenly  ? 

It's  of  no  use  to  argue  this  point.  I  wouldn't  ex 
change  the  hour  I  first  pass  after  waking  for  any  two 
in  the  day.  It's  the  Sabbath  hour  of  the  day  ! 

Pardon  me  :  I  had  no  intention  of  discussing  this  old 
story.  What  sent  me  off  on  this  track  ?  Ah !  I  re 
member.  It  was  to  explain  a  remark  which  H 

made  a  little  while  later. 

I  was  lying  at  full  length  on  the  ground  under  the 
rock,  covered  by  a  branch  of  a  chestnut  tree  which  I 
had  broken  off  to  conceal  me  with,  when  the  first  faint 
rays  of  the  day  began  to  break  through  the  blue  east, 
slowly  struggling  with  the  stars,  as  if  for  mastery,  until 
they  triumphed.  One  by  one  the  night-watchers  sank 
into  the  sky,  mournfully,  it  seemed  to  me,  as  if  they 
liked  not  to  leave  their  vigil.  I  have  a  fondness  for 
that  old  fancy  of  the  Arabians,  that  the  stars  are  torches 
held  in  the  hands  of  the  dead  while  they  keep  the  holy 
watch  of  affection  over  the  desert.  There  was  some 
thing  touching  in  the  promise  of  the  Arab  maiden  when 


210  LATER    YEARS. 

she  passed  away  with  the  evening  wind,  that,  an  hour 
later,  she  would  he  watching  her  lover  from  a  throne 
above,  and  her  torch  should  be  well  kept  to  light  him 
toward  her. 

There  was  a  cloud  lying  on  the  horizon.  It  grew 
lighter  and  lighter,  and  then  hecame  suddenly  very 
Mack,  and  its  upper  edge  was  tinged  with  a  deep  red, 
fast  changing  to  gold.  I  had  not  moved  as  yet  from 
my  position.  The  horizon  was  some  thirty  miles  away, 
for  the  hill  on  which  we  were  lying  was  far  higher 
than  any  within  that  distance.  At  length  a  bright  red 
flush  suddenly  covered  the  east,  and  the  next  instant  a 
point  of  light  gleamed  in  my  eyes  with  overpowering 
brilliancy.  At  this  moment  I  heard  a  faint  halloo,  and, 

starting  up,  saw  H standing  on  a  rock  some  sixty 

or  eighty  rods  from  me,  pointing  with  one  hand  to  the 
east,  and  with  the  other  placed  by  the  side  of  his  mouth, 
while  he  shouted  to  me,  in  a  tremendous  voice,  that 
barely  reached  me  in  the  wind,  "  That's  sunrise !" 
"Possible!"  exclaimed  I,  and  turned  to  examine  it 
again.  But  the  beauty  and  glory  of  the  scene  was 
gone.  It  was  the  sun,  and  nothing  more.  Yet,  as  I 
saw  the  other  hill  tops  touched  and  tinged  with  the  red 
rays,  as  they  held  up  their  heads  to  receive  the  morn 
ing  kiss  of  the  lord  of  the  day,  and  then,  as  the  white 
houses  on  the  hill  sides  began  to  be  lit  up  as  the  gleam 
of  the  sun  traveled  down  into  the  hollows,  I  stood  long 
and  earnestly  gazing,  and  thanked  God  for  the  full  of 
sunlight  that  he  pours  over  his  apostate  world. 

But  the  pigeons  !     Oh  yes,  I  was  to  tell  of  them. 


PIGEON    SHOOTING.  211 

"  "Where  were  the  pigeons  all  this  time,"  did  you  ask  1 
Really,  my  kind  reader,  I'd  be  obliged  to  you  if  you 
would  not  ask  such  troublesome  questions.  "Where 
were  they  ?"  Bless  me,  how  should  I  know !  I  can 
tell  you  where  they  were  not.  On  that  hill  where  I 
lay  coiled  up,  under  a  green  chestnut  bough  for  a  cov 
erlid,  and  a  rock  for  a  wind-breaker.  How  the  north 
wester  did  whistle  over  the  hill  top  !  It  was  a  glorious 
morning  for  a  view,  a  grand  morning  for  a  ride,  a  beau 
tiful  morning  for  a  walk,  but  a  most  miserable  morning 
for  pigeons. 

Still  the  view  was  magnificent,  and  after  a  while  I 
straitened  myself  up,  and,  unfolding  the  bends  of  my 
body,  looked  out  at  the  prospect.  We  were  about  forty 
miles  from  New  York,  between  the  Hudson  and  the 
Sound.  In  the  west  and  north  were  the  Highlands, 
and  in  one  place  I  caught  a  gleam  of  the  water  of  the 
noble  river  away  down  in  the  south,  under  the  Palisades. 
In  the  southeast,  under  the  sun,  and  toward  the  right, 
I  saw  the  hills  that  border  on  the  Sound,  and  between 
me  and  them  lay  a  long  range  of  hills,  some  covered 
with  forests,  and  others  cleared  and  cultivated.  But 
most  of  all  my  eyes  turned  northward  toward  the  High 
lands,  and  I  remembered  the  years  long  gone.  It  sad 
dens  me  somewhat  to  look  toward  the  scenes  of  boyish 
pleasures  in  the  days  that  are  sepulchred  and  epi- 
taphed. 

The  sudden  flashes  of  thought  from  one  subject  to 
another  are  often  startling  to  me,  as  I  have  before  re 
marked  to  you;  and  yet  there  seerns  always  to  be 


212  LATER    YEARS. 

some  sort  of  association,  through  which  the  mind  glides 
rather  than  leaps  ;  and  I  have  often  argued  from  this, 
that  in  the  same  way,  perhaps,  the  mind  at  death  would 
not  start  suddenly  into  a  new  and  strange  existence, 
but  would,  imperceptibly,  as  it  were,  pass  from  this  into 
its  future  state,  and  not  be  astonished  when  it  begun  to 
try  its  new  powers. 

A  moment  before,  I  was  watching  a  cloud  on  the 
northwestern  horizon,  and  wondering  if  it  was  or  was 
not  a  flight  of  pigeons.  At  the  next  instant  I  was  think 
ing  of  the  far  past :  my  mind  was  in  that  old  grave 
yard  in  the  Highlands,  where  I  have  more  friends  than 
in  any  other  place  on  earth.  And  then  I  was  as  sud 
denly  off  in  far  land,  and  thinking  of  the  mournful  voice 
of  the  delicate  Mignon,  as  she  looked  up  into  "Wilhelm 
Meister's  face,  and  exclaimed,  "Kennst  du  das  land? 
Kennst  du  cs  wohl  ?"  And  then,  thinking  of  Goethe 
very  naturally  set  me  thinking  of  "  Vaterland,"  and  I 
caught  myself  humming  over  Korner's 

"  Wo  1st  des  Siingers  Vaterland  1 
Wo  cdler  Geister  Funken  sprxlhten1' — 

I  shall  go  up  to  the  Highland  5  soon. 

But  those  pigeons?  My  dear  sir,  why  will  you  be 
everlastingly  harping  on  that  foolish  question.  Curi 
osity  is  a  besetting  sin  of  children,  but  you  should  be 
ashamed  of  it.  You  shall  come  at  the  pigeons  just  as 
soon  as  I  did.  We  were  very  hungry  at  eight  o'clock, 
and  making  our  way  down  the  hill  toward  a  farm-house 
in  the  valley,  we  sent  N to  see  if  there  were  any 


PIGEON    SHOOTIXG.  213 

eatables  inside.  A  substantial  breakfast  rewarded  his 
exertions,  and  we  soon  plunged  into  the  forest  and 
trudged  slowly  along.  Noon  found  us  seated  by  a 
farmer's  table,  evincing  as  good  appetites  as  if  we  had 
had  no  breakfast,  and  our  worthy  host  after  dinner  di 
rected  us  to  some  of  the  interesting  localities  in  the 
neighborhood.  This  house  was  the  scene  of  a  mur 
der;  that  tree  was  where  the  murderer  hung  himself; 
yonder  is  where  the  victim  is  buried,  and  yonder  where 
the  felo  de  se  sleeps  the  sleep  he  coveted.  All  very 
pleasant  and  curious,  and  we  looked  and  walked  on. 
At  night  we  slept,  and  I  did  not  dream,  so  weary  was  I. 
But  the  pigeons  1  My  dear  friend,  I  told  you  you  should 
come  at  them  just  as  soon  as  I  did,  and  you  have. 


XXVII. 

31 1  n  H  g  t  jj  J   &  r  i  i   E  it  i  I  ~  r  n  a  1 

June,  18 — . 

YOU  will  have  lingered  with  me  on  the  magnificent 
view  presented  from  the  end  of  the  long  pier  at 
Piermont,  and  experienced  a  momentary  regret  that 
this  new  western  route  has  taken  you  away  from  the 
old  line  along  the  lovely  Hudson ;  but,  with  a  passing 
glance  at  the  hills,  made  classic  by  the  melancholy  his 
tory  of  Andre,  and  an  emotion  of  sorrow,  which  no 
American  has  ever  failed  to  acknowledge  in  remember 
ing  his  fate,  you  will  soon  forget  the  Hudson  and  Andre, 
and  every  thing  else  local  and  stationary,  in  gazing  at 
the  swiftly-changing  scenery  through  which  you  are 
flying. 

I  have  taken  the  old  route  by  Piermont  for  the  sake 
of  a  visit  to  a  pleasant  house  in  a  valley  not  far  from 
the  river,  which  is  the  place  of  my  present  stay. 

Seated  in  the  broad,  arm-chair-like  seat,  which  you 
never  saw  on  any  rail-road,  with  eye  glancing  from 
mountain  to  river,  from  tree  to  field,  you  have  already 
fallen  in  love  with  the  route  of  travel  you  have  com 
menced,  and,  as  you  dash  under  the  side  of  an  abrupt 
mountain,  threatening  you  with  its  overhanging  rocks, 


ALONG    THE    ERIE    RAIL-ROAD.  215 

you  wish  to  stop  among  these  rude  but  grand  scenes, 
and  the  cars  obey  your  will. 

The  station  shall  be  nameless,  since  we  may  now 
speak  of  some  things  better  left  without  a  locality.  In 
the  corner  of  the  valley,  shaded  on  the  east  and  south 
by  lofty  maples  and  two  old  elms,  guarded  on  the  north 
arid  west  by  the  steep  sides  of  the  hill,  you  find  one  of 
those  oldfashioned  low  cottages  which  you  may  have 
read  of,  more  likely  have  dreamed  of  in  your  summer 
fancies,  possibly  have  seen.  Within  five  rods  of  the 
vine-covered  piazza  is  a  waterfall,  where  a  mountain 
torrent  pours  down  the  hill  side,  and  dashes  from  a  rock 
fifteen  feet  high  into  a  basin  which  has  been  carefully 
kept  from  the  faulty  hands  of  art.  The  very  flowers 
growing  on  its  banks  are  the  spontaneous  growth  of 
the  soil,  and  your  foot  is  buried  in  the  dewy  or  spray- 
covered  leaves  of  the  adder-tongue,  as  you  approach 
the  water  to  look  at  the  large  trout,  which  will  soon 
learn  to  know  you,  if  they  do  not  already  admit  your 
right  to  approach  as  a  friend  of  the  family. 

As  you  enter  the  heavy  gate,  swinging  from  a  mass 
ive  rock  in  the  side  of  the  hill,  you  have  observed 
half  a  dozen  pet  deer,  not  startled  by  your  entrance, 
but  gazing  rather  pleasantly  at  you  with  their  large 
round  eyes,  as  if  glad  to  welcome  a  stranger  to  their 
paradise  ;  and  it  will  be  marvelous  if  you  reach  the 
door  of  the  house  without  being  startled  at  the  familiar 
ity  of  some  of  the  pet  birds,  that  have  been  now,  for 
several  years,  the  tenants  of  sundry  nooks  and  trees  in 
the  grounds  about  the  old  place. 


216  LATER    YEARS. 

Such  is  the  external  appearance  of  this  spot.  With 
in,  all  is  as  beautiful,  and  gentle,  and  happy,  and  life 
here  has  leave  to  run  along,  with  its  rounds  of  duties 
and  difficulties,  prayers  and  sorrows,  hopes  and  pains. 
Three  persons  call  the  cottage  home.  My  friend  the 
doctor  (well  known  to  you  in  some  of  our  adventures 
by  land  and  sea  in  past  -years),  his  lady  wife,  and  his 
daughter.  The  tastes  or  dispositions  of  persons  who 
have  such  a  home  need  no  comment,  and  the  groaning 
shelves  of  the  library  in  which  I  am  writing  afford  the 
best  evidence,  if  any  were  lacking,  that  such  a  place 
could  only  be  the  home  of  pure  hearts,  refined  intel 
lects,  and  gentle  souls.  To  see  them,  you  would  think 
that  life  had  been  cheated  out  of  its  pains  here,  and 
that  they  had  found  a  refuge  from  the  ills  that  flesh 
inherits. 

It  need  not  be  said  that  you  would  err.  Two  years 
ago,  the  valley  was  gladdened  by  other  bright  eyes,  oth 
er  fairy  forms  flitting  among  the  trees  and  along  the 
banks  of  the  brook.  Two  blue-eyed  girls  used  to  be 
sung  to  sleep  in  the  north  room  of  the  cottage  by  the 
waterfall,  and  I  dare  not  say  whether  it  was  they  or 
the  birds  that  first  woke  the  other  in  the  mornings  with 
their  musical  voices. 

But  the  valley  is  not  lonely,  though  they  arc  gone ; 
and  the  brook  has  not  lost  its  music,  though  they  slum 
ber  so  deeply  near  its  bank  as  to  need  no  lullaby ;  and 
the  birds  sing  as  gayly  in  the  morning,  though  they 
wake  not,  and  will  not  wake,  for  music,  or  day-dawn, 
or  mother's  voice  calling  to  prayer.  I  say  the  valley 


ALONG    THE    ERIE    RAIL-ROAD.  217 

is  not  lonely,  though  they  are  gone  ;  for  there  is  a  con 
sciousness  in  all  who  are  here  that  there  is  present  an 
unseen  influence,  so  gentle,  subduing,  and  hallowing, 
that  you  grow  into  believing  in  a  certain  sort  of  spirit 
ual  manifestation ;  and,  shocked  and  disgusted  as  you 
may  have  been  with  the  mad  fancies  of  weak  intellects, 
you  can  not  fail  to  recognize  here  the  evidence  of  spir 
it  talking  to  spirit,  in  the  silent  power  that  God  gives 
the  blessed  dead  ;  and  you  can  not  but  believe  that 
heaven  is  even  nearer  to  you  than  it  seems,  when  you 
look  up  at  the  blue  sky,  resting  on  the  mountain  peak 
above  the  cottage. 

The  doctor  is  unusually  gay  to-day,  and,  as  a  natural 
effect,  the  spirits  of  all  the  family  are  elevated.  When 
he  is  silent  and  thoughtful,  they  are  so ;  but  when  he 
is  as  to-day,  they  are  like  him.  It  is  a  pleasant  power, 
that  of  controlling,  by  one's  own  feelings,  the  feelings 
of  others  ;  and  an  ambition  one  may  be  proud  of,  to  win 
such  affection  as  will  be  proved  true  by  this  never-fail 
ing  test.  So  good  are  his  spirits,  that  he  devised  a  plan 
for  committing  murder,  and  I  fancy  that  a  clear  evi 
dence  of  his  high  state  of  feeling.  Did  you  never  ob 
serve  that,  when  a  man  is  gay  and  happy,  he  usually 
grows  murderous -in  his  disposition,  and  fortlwvith  goes 
to  killing  fish,  or  birds,  or  deer,  or  something  of  the 
sort,  according  as  his  inclinations  run  ?  Now,  this  morn 
ing,  the  doctor  called  me  to  help  him  kill  a  fox,  which 
had  destroyed  a  chicken  in  the  night — a  pet  chicken  of 
Ella's,  too.  I  was  lying  half  awake  in  the  north  room 
when  he  hallooed  to  me  from  the  lawn, 
K 


218  LATER    YEARS. 

"  I  say,  Philip,  will  you  wake  up  1  It's  five  o'clock, 
and  you're  lazy.  Come  along,  man,  and  help  me  kill  a 
fox  that  has  been  poaching  here." 

""Where's  your  fox,  doctor?"  asked  I,  without  mov 
ing. 

"  Gone  up  the  mountain,  I  suppose.  Come,  come,  my 
dear  fellow,  and  bring  the  shot-gun  with  you  that  hangs 
on  the  side  of  your  room.  Take  care  of  it,  too,  for  it's 
loaded." 

Slowly  dressing,  I  had  not  donned  my  coat,  when  I 
saw  from  my  window,  on  the  surface  of  the  pond,  that 
which  attracted  my  attention. 

"  Doctor,  are  any  of  your  trout  afflicted  with  diseased 
heads  ?" 

"None  that  I  know  of;  why  do  you  ask?"  said  he, 
approaching  my  open  window. 

"  I've  heard  such  things  of  whales  in  the  Pacific,  and 
that  the  disease  kept  them  along  the  surface  of  the 
water,  with  a  protuberance  looking  like  a  rock.  Sure 
nothing  of  that  sort  ails  any  of  your  fish  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  not.     What  an  idea  !" 

"  Positive  none  of  Ella's  especial  pets  of  the  finny 
sort  are  afflicted  that  way,  are  you?" 

"Nonsense!" 

Crack !  went  the  capital  fowling-piece  I  held  in  my 
hand,  and  with  the  second  barrel  I  took  three  inches 
out  of  the  side  of  a  mink,  as  he  sprang  out  of  the  pond. 

"  There's  your  fox,  doctor.  Now,  if  you  have  no  ob 
jection,  I'll  turn  in  again  till  a  city  man  may,  with 
some  degree  of  propriety,  be  visible." 


ALONG    THE    ERIE    RAIL-ROAD.  219 

But  sleeping  was  out  of  the  question,  for  my  gun  had 
brought  the  whole  household,  and  so  we  made  the  morn 
ing  as  pleasant  as  we  could  till  the  dew  was  gone  from 
the  leaves,  and  then  Ella,  and  the  doctor,  and  "  madame 

the  doctor"  (as  we  style  Mrs. ),  and  Joe,  and  M , 

and  myself,  took  the  mountain  road  on  horseback,  and, 
after  three  hours  in  the  saddle,  returned  to  a  capital 
breakfast,  to  which  the  brook  contributed  a  three- 
pounder  in  red  and  gold  livery. 

A  week  here,  and  then  we  are  away  along  the  rail 
road  again. 


XXVIII. 

13  ill 


Orange  County,  June,  18  —  . 

ABOUT  four  miles  from  the  rock  on  which  I  now 
sit,  with  folio  on  my  knee,  is  the  Middletown  sta 
tion  on  the  rail-road.  Leaving  the  cars  at  that  point, 
you  drive,  by  a  pleasant  road,  half  through  woods  and 
half  by  pleasant  farms,  to  the  village  on  the  cross-roads, 
which  lies  on  the  side  of  the  hill  on  which  I  am.  But 
the  little  village  stands  nearly  a  thousand  feet  above 
the  level  of  tide-water,  and  the  land  slopes  away  by 
gentle  gradations  from  the  church  door,  twenty  miles, 
to  Newburgh.  I  can  see  all  of  Orange  County  between 
the  Warwick  and  the  Shawangunk  011  the  south  and 
north,  and  between  the  Hudson  and  the  Delaware  on 
the  east  and  west,  without  moving  from  rny  present 
seat.  You  have  never  seen  a  richer  or  more  beautiful 
view.  It  is  like  a  picture  set  in  a  rugged  frame,  to  be 
looked  at  and  to  be  loved. 

It  is  pleasant  to  make  this  one  of  the  first  of  my 
sketches  of  summer  travel,  for  it-  brings  me  back  to  old 
days,  and  I  start  like  a  boy  going  out  into  the  world  to 
see  its  wonders.  Here  parts  of  the  pleasantest  years 
of  boyhood  were  passed  ;  here  Joe  "Willis  and  I  have 
loitered  away  the  summers  and  autumns  of  many  a 


THE    HILL.  221 

year,  long,  long  gone  ;  here — but  I  am  too  fast.  Let 
us  return  to  the  view.  The  round  hill  top  on  which  I 
now  sit  is  in  fine  cultivation,  and  the  fields  near  me  are 
full  of  promise.  To  the  east  the  view  is  bounded  by 
the  Fishkill  Mountains,  toward  the  base  of  which  the 
lands  of  Orange  County  slope  away  from  my  very  feet. 
To  the  south  you  have  the  same  slope  to  the  Warwick 
hills ;  and  to  the  west,  in  the  distance,  are  the  hills  by 
the  water-gap  of  the  Delaware.  North  lies  the  Shawan- 
gunk  chain,  beautifully  diversified  to  the  very  summits 
with  farm  and  forest.  But  now  for  the  more  immedi 
ate  locality. 

Close  by  my  side,  fifty  rods  or  so  down  the  hill  side, 
commanding  nearly  all  of  this  same  view,  stands  the 
parsonage  house,  whereof  I  shall  have  more  to  say  soon, 
for  there  are  pleasant  and  sad  memories  clustering  there. 
Half  way  down  the  hill,  toward  the  cross-roads,  is  an 
old  well,  the  water  of  which  is  impregnated  with  iron, 
and  which  I  shall  also  speak  of.  Then  you  have  the 
village,  some  ten  or  twelve  houses  and  the  meeting 
house,  standing  at  the  junction  of  six  roads  ;  and  on  the 
suddenly  descending  hill  side  across  the  main  road,  with 
gate  opening  toward  the  church,  is  the  old  grave-yard, 
white  with  memorial  stones.  Here  and  there,  over  the 
forests  that  fill  the  valley  to  the  north,  you  may  see  the 
smoke  from  farm-houses  and  cabins,  while  all  around 
are  the  substantial  homes  and  magnificent  fields  of  the 
Orange  County  farmers. 

Here,  I  have  said,  we — that  is,  Joe  "Willis  and  I — 
have  passed  many  summers  and  many  autumns.  And 


222  LATER    YEARS. 

how  happened  it,  say  you  ?  Because  those  that  we 
loved  were  here  ;  and  in  the  little  parsonage  which 
gleams  so  pleasantly  against  its  background  of  tall  oaks 
and  dark  wood,  there  lived,  in  those  pleasant  days,  one 
very  dear  to  us,  whose  memory  lives  now  with  all  these 
glorious  scenes,  but  who  will  be  with  us  among  them 
no  more,  unless,  in  that  blessed  day  of  awakening,  God 
do  permit  us  to  walk  again  the  earth,  now  no  longer 
weary,  and  find  our  heaven  in  the  fields  that  are  purer 
and  greener,  and  by  the  waters  that  are  deeper  and 
more  still  in  their  ravishing  beauty  even  than  they 
were  to  the  glad  eyes  of  our  childhood.  I  have  told 
you  that  Joe  Willis  and  I  were  bound  together  by  many 
close  ties  in  early  years.  Before  I  finish  these  sketches 
I  may  allude  to  others ;  but  this  alone  is  enough,  and 
more  than  enough,  to  make  us  friends  forever. 

We  shall  neither  of  us  forget  that  stormy  night  when 

M and  he  and  I  sat  together,  and  watched  the 

lightning  flashing  through  a  clouded  world.  How 
dream-like  we  all  thought  the  beauty  of  the  hills,  and 
how  unearthly  the  radiance  of  their  summits  when 
fringed  with  the  golden  gleams  of  the  flashes !  Even 
then  she  was  dead,  and  we  knew  it  not.  That  morn 
ing,  a  thousand  miles  away,  in  the  state-room  of  a 
steamer,  with  the  arms  she  loved  best  in  all  the  world 
around  her,  she  was  passing  away,  and  when  the  calm 
beauty  of  the  day  broke  on  the  world,  she  had  gone  to 
her  God.  We  buried  her  far  from  here,  in  one  of  the 
cemeteries  near  the  great  city,  and  Willis  and  I  stood 
together  by  that  grave,  and  remembered  the  parsonage 


THE    HILL.  223 

on  the  hill  side,  and  the  light  that  had  gone  from  it  for 
ever.     Peace,  peace  be  with  her ! 

And  yonder,  where  the  sunlight  shows  the  distant 
mountains,  blue  and  calm  in  the  sky,  there  was  (till 
lately)  another  grave  that  we  watched,  for  almost  a 
score  of  years,  with  faithful  watch.  Shall  I  speak  of 
him  ?  Young,  ardent,  and  affectionate,  he  passed  from 
our  embraces  in  the  morning  of  his  years,  when  as  yet 
the  summer  sun  of  life  had  not  fallen  oppressingly  011 
him.  It  was  thus  that  he  died.  Returning  from  his 
college,  he  was  taken  sick  at  a  city  halfway  home,  and 
his  reason  grew  clouded  while  he  was  most  anxious  to 
reach  the  arms  that  awaited  him.  A  few  days  of  fear 
ful  watching  and  waiting  comprise  the  remainder  of  his 
story,  to  us  full  of  thrilling  incident,  but  to  strange  ears 
the  same  old  story  of  humanity  struggling  with  the 
enemy.  He  had  heard  the  voice  which  called  him 
away,  and  was  waiting  to  go.  He  was  a  noble  boy,  of 
high  hope,  of  brilliant  intellect,  of  holy  heart.  The 
faith  of  his  fathers  had  been  strong  in  his  soul,  but 
clouds  gathered  around  him  now.  At  times  his  wan 
dering  intellect  grew  brilliant,  and  hope  and  wild  am 
bition  fought  manfully  with  despair  and  death. 

But  the  hour  and  the  moment  came,  and,  gathering 
its  robes  of  memory  about  it,  the  spirit,  shaking  off  the 
clay,  entered  the  shadowy  valley.  There  was  silence 
in  the  room  while  darkness  gathered  over  him,  slowly 
thick  darkness  falling  on  his  forehead,  on  his  cheek, 
and  on  his  eye,  until,  with  a  long,  deep  sigh,  a  slow,  sad 
breath,  his  breast  grew  calm,  the  repose  of  death  set- 


224  LATER    YEARS. 

tied  on  his  countenance,  and  he  went  forth  into  that 
land  where  there  is  no  gloom. 

"  Never  the  night  shuts  in  that  country, 

Nor  cometh  the  gloaming  gray, 
But  the  day  shines  on  forever 
In  that  country  far  away." 

He  was  gone.  The  first  who  had  left  that  magic 
circle  around  the  hearth-stone  had  gone,  and  whither  ? 
Into  what  distant  land,  what  far  journeyings,  what  un 
known  gloom  had  he  entered  ? 

Thank  God  forever  that  our  doubts  were  answered ; 
for  as  we  gazed  on  the  sad  features  of  the  dead  boy, 
there  came  suddenly  across  them  a  gleam,  a  glow,  a 
dawn,  a  heaven  of  light,  flushing  his  countenance  with 
all  the  radiance  of  the  blessed  land.  No  feature 
changed,  no  motion  indicated  returning  life,  no  quiver 
ing  lips  or  eyelid  betrayed  the  return  and  presence  in 
the  body  of  the  spirit  that  had  left  it ;  but  now,  while 
the  lips  remained  unstirred,  and  every  muscle  was  calm 
in  the  statue-like  rigidity  of  death,  there  came  a  voice, 
a  sound  as  of  an  angel's  song,  issuing  from  those  dead 
lips.  Low  and  faint  at  first,  it  swelled  into  full  notes 
of  ravishing  melody,  but  all  the  time  distant,  far  away, 
like  the  sounds  we  hear  in  dreams,  and  the  fancies  of 
quiet  Sabbath  mornings. 

Never  on  mortal  ear  fell  sounds  so  holy.  But  still 
there  was  no  motion  of  lips  or  features,  no  lifted  hand, 
no  finger  pointing  to  the  blue  sky,  no  beckoning  to  the 
lonely  ones  he  left  to  follow  him,  only  that  holy  voice 


THE    HILL.  225 

of  melody  coming  from  the  lips  that  had  done  with 
earthly  sound.  It  died  away,  not  in  broken  accents, 
nor  sobs,  nor  feebleness,  but  clear  as  the  sound  of  fall 
ing  streams  in  Eden  to  the  very  last. 

Call  it  what  you  will,  we  knew  that  it  was  by  God's 
good  pleasure  that  his  spirit  returned  to  tell  us  of  the 
beautiful  country  into  which  it  had  escaped — "  the  far 
away  country,  where  is  no  night  on  land  or  sea." 

The  same  gleam  of  heaven-light  was  on  his  features 
when  we  buried  him.  It  was  a  sad,  sad  day  as  we 
filled  his  grave  down  yonder ;  and,  many  a  year  after 
that,  standing  on  this  high  hill,  we  watched  that  grave 
in  the  distance.  He  is  not  there  now.  One  pleasant 
morning,  not  many  weeks  ago,  we  came  up  to  New- 
burgh  and  disturbed  his  repose.  We  lifted  him  gently  ; 
and,  as  we  moved  him,  I  remembered  the  April  morn 
ing  in  the  years  long  gone,  when  he  was  laid  there,  and 
I  smiled  sadly  to  myself  as  the  form  of  the  venerable 
clergyman  again  appeared  before  me,  reciting  the 
words, 

"  Unveil  thy  bosom,  faithful  tomb." 

In  this  world  there  is  nothing  faithful,  not  even  the 
grave. 

We  have  laid  him  where  she  sleeps,  in  the  forest 
shade  of  the  great  cemetery,  and  have  left  him  to  rest 
there.  I  drive  by  there  frequently  now,  and  I  find  it 
pleasant,  after  a  day  of  toil,  labor,  weariness,  and  much 
wrangling  and  dispute,  to  look  up  at  the  grove  of  trees 
in  which  they  sleep  pleasantly  and  quietly,  and  to  pass 

K2 


226  LATER    YEARS. 

on,  dreaming1  pleasant  dreams  of  the  place  where  there 
is  no  more  weariness. 

But  I  have  forgotten  the  place  from  which  I  am  wri 
ting.  Return  with  me  now  to  the  spot,  and  we  will 
again  look  on  the  country. 

Half  way  down  the  hill  is  a  well,  whereof  I  promised 
to  write  somewhat,  but  I  will  not  pause  there  except  to 
drink  one  draught  of  its  pleasant  water.  Yet  stop  ! 
Not  far  from  it  you  will  find  a  slab  of  slatestone,  on 
which,  years  ago,  I  chiseled  some  rude  characters, 
"Hie  jacet,  <^c.,"  with  a  passage  from  Homer  under 
neath,  the  substance  of  which  is  in  praise  of  a  good 
steed.  The  stone  was  chiseled  to  mark  the  grave  of  a 
horse,  which  for  nearly  thirty  years  had  drawn  the  gig 
of  the  venerable  pastor  of  the  church.  His  home  was 
that  substantial  farm-house  in  the  valley,  and  this  land 
was  his.  It  is  pleasant  to  remember  that  good  old  man, 
and  I  may  venture  to  name  him  here,  since  he  has  gone 
to  his  reward.  Methuselah  Baldwin  died  in  the  year 
1849,  aged  83  years.  He  sleeps  in  the  old  grave-yard 
on  the  hill  side,  opposite  the  church,  and  in  the  resur 
rection  he  will  awake  among  the  fathers  and  sons,  the 
mothers  and  daughters,  the  old  and  the  young  of  a  con 
gregation  to  whom  he  ministered  for  more  than  fifty 
years.  I  remember,  with  many  pleasant  thoughts,  the 
form  and  features  of  the  old  pastor,  and  one  of  the  hap 
piest  associations  connected  with  the  old  church  on  the 
hill  is  the  recollection  of  his  long  white  locks,  his  bowed 
head,  his  feeble  voice — all  contrasting  with  the  fresh 
ness,  and  force,  and  purity  of  his  devotion. 


THE    HILL.  227 

"Well,  well,  I  must  not  linger  even,  here  in  the  old 
church-yard,  though  I  would  fain  pause  a  while  at  tho 
grave  of  one  who  was  once,  like  Joe  and  myself,  young, 
strong,  and  hopeful.  We  are  living,  and  he  is  gone. 
We  are  of  the  earth,  and  he  is  gone  beyond  the  stars. 

By  my  faith,  I  dare  not  stay  here  longer.  If  I  re 
main,  the  flood  of  sad  memories  now  gathering  force 
will  overpower  me.  The  world  has  changed,  Joe,  since 
we  were  last  here  together,  and  we  have  changed  ; 
and  the  best  comfort  we  have  is,  that  the  world  we  are 
going  to  has  changed,  so  as  to  have  assumed  the  like 
ness  of  the  world  we  left  years  ago — our  little  world  up 
in  the  Highlands  here. 

The  night  gathers  around  us.  The  forests  down  to 
ward  Montgomery  are  already  lost  in  gloom,  and  the 
flush  of  evening  has  almost  died  out  of  the  western 
sky.  Half  a  dozen  night-hawks  are  wheeling  around 
my  head,  and  I  hear  a  whippoorwill  on  the  roof  of  the 
old  barn  in  the  hollow.  As  the  gloom  deepens,  you 
will  hear  the  chirps  of  the  insects  grow  louder  in  the 
woods  ;  and  at  length  the  air  will  be  cold  and  chilly, 
and  the  stars  will  twinkle  with  a  lustre  unusual  except 
on  such  high  land.  We  must  leave  the  hill  top,  and  in 
the  morning  we  will  return  to  the  rail-road. 


XXIX. 

nf  \i  I)  Human. 


Cochecton,  July,  18  —  . 

YOU  have  recrossed  the  river,  and  are  again  in  the 
State  of  New  York,  flying  along  by  every  variety 
of  scenery,  now  looking  at  a  mountain  on  whose  side  no 
trees  find  ground  to  cling  to  except  a  few  stunted  ce 
dars,  and  now  at  another  which  appears  to  be  a  vast 
mound  of  green  hemlock  branches  piled  up  to  the  sky, 
out  of  the  summit  of  which  a  few  tall,  mast-like  trees, 
in  the  leafless  grandeur  of  old  age,  rear  their  solemn- 
looking  forms,  as  calm  as  the  sky  to  which  they  have  so 
long  been  in  close  proximity  ;  now  catching  a  glimpse 
of  a  dashing  waterfall  as  some  brook  leaps  gladly  into 
the  embrace  of  the  lordly  river,  and  now  at  the  deep 
rush  of  the  river  along  its  rocky  banks,  bearing  on,  and 
on,  and  on,  with  one  swift,  deep,  unchanging  flow,  seek 
ing  with  determination  (as  the  stout  heart  of  a  strong 
man  might  seek)  an  ocean  in  the  unseen  distance. 

The  scenery  has  been  varied,  but  always  grand  ;  rug 
ged,  but  attractive.  You  see  a  huge  rock,  and  are 
scarcely  tempted  to  look  a  second  time,  but  you  catch 
sight  of  a  stray  ivy  branch  hanging  over  its  rough  form, 
and  then  a  huge  human  face  appears  on  the  side,  and 
you  lean  forward,  startled  at  the  view,  but  are  already 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  DELAWARE.        229 

half  a  mile  away,  and  have  only  time  to  see,  as  you 
look  back,  that  the  rock  overhangs  a  deep,  shining  ba 
sin  of  water,  into  which  a  brook  is  pouring  its  tiny  flood, 
and  you  know  there  must  be  trout  in  its  cool  shade. 
Here  is  a  solitary  tree,  leafless,  and  having  but  a  dozen 
branches  or  so  clustered  at  the  top,  a  hundred  feet  from 
the  ground.  You  scarcely  begin  to  wonder  about  its 
age,  and  to  fancy  the  scenes  it  has  known  of  old,  when 
you  are  again  surprised  into  exclamation  by  the  vision 
of  a  hill  side,  down  which  the  track  of  the  hurricane  ia 
marked  by  a  row  of  fallen  hemlocks  lying  in  stately  re 
pose.  It  is  vain  to  attempt  a  sketch  of  the  scenes  be 
tween  our  last  place  of  rest  and  that  at  which  I  now 
write.  You  have,  as  I  said,  recrossed  into  New  York  ; 
and  now,  after  flying  over  a  broad  tract  of  level  bottom 
land,  you  will  see  a  little  white  church  gleaming  out 
from  among  a  small  cluster  of  houses  near  a  long  bridge. 
The  hills  on  either  side  of  the  river  recede  a  little  from 
the  bank,  making  room  for  the  two  villages  or  hamlets 
of  Damascus  in  Pennsylvania,  and  Cochecton  in  New 
York. 

To  those  who  remember  the  old  Newburgh  and  Co 
checton  turnpike,  this  place  will  be  known,  but  to  few 
others.  It  was  formerly  reached  by  a  ride  of  sixty 
miles  from  Newburgh,  forty  of  which  was  a  succession 
of  mountain  ascents  and  descents. 

My  first  acquaintance  with  this  beautiful  valley  com 
menced  on  this  wise. 

In  those  days  when  Joe  Willis  and  I  devoted  most  of 
our  time  to  hunting,  fishing,  and  similar  sports,  when 


230  LATER    YEARS. 

the  white  manse  on  the  hill  was  our  favorite  home,  and 
we  made  excursions  thence  into  all  the  country  round, 
our  brother  E was  in  the  habit  of  sometimes  leav 
ing  his  own  parish  for  a  week  or  two,  and  traveling, 
with  his  carriage,  over  the  hills  of  Wayne,  Sullivan,  and 
Ulster  counties,  seeking  the  destitute,  to  whom  he  might 
speak  some  of  those  blessed  words  of  faith  and  hope, 
which  are  like  springs  in  the  desert,  to  many  of  the 
dwellers  in  the  wilderness.  It  was  pleasant  for  us  to 
go  with  him,  and  many  a  long  mile  up  the  mountains, 
and  many  a  long  mile  down  the  mountains,  have  we 
traveled  together,  now  singing  old  songs,  and  often  mak 
ing  the  forest  ring  with  some  brave  old  psalm. 

We  would  stop  at  a  cabin  sometimes,  and  eat  of  the 
plain  food  of  the  settler,  seldom  finding  any  thing  but 
buckwheat  flour,  yet  once  in  a  while  aided  in  making 
our  meal  by  capital  venison  stews,  a  broiled  partridge, 
or  a  black-mouthed  trout.  Then,  when  we  had  eaten, 

E would  speak  a  few  words  that  never  failed  to 

attract  attention ;  and  sometimes,  when  they  knew  he 
was  a  clergyman,  they  would  send  for  the  neighbors  for 
miles  around,  and  gather  them  in  the  evening  in  some 
log  schoolhouse  or  cabin  ;  and  I  tell  you  there  was 
never  such  worship  in  cathedral  or  minster  as  we  had 
in  the  forest  schoolhouse,  lit  by  the  moonlight  stream 
ing  down  through  magnificent  trees. 

I  say  lit  by  the  moonlight ;  for  there  was  no  other 

light  except  the  flickering  candle  that  stood  near  E , 

and  by  whose  light  he  read  from  his  little  pocket  Bible 
words  so  sublime  that  they  thrilled  the  hearts  of  his 


?HE  VALLEY  OF  THE  DELAWARE.        231 

rude  hearers  (unused  to  voices  from  heaven),  and  our 
hearts  too,  which  were  unused  to  such  scenes. 

At  this  moment  I  remember  an  interruption  to  one 
of  those  meetings,  of  which  you  will  pardon  me  if  I 
pause  to  speak. 

The  meeting  was  in  a  log  schoolhouse,  the  benches 
were  logs  running  along  two  sides  of  the  cabin.  The 
door  opened  at  the  one  end,  and  the  hewn  table  stood 
at  the  other  end.  The  place  was  beautiful.  Some  day 
I  mean  to  return  there.  It  was  about  fifteen  miles  from 
here,  on  the  bank  of  a  dark  but  beautiful  lake.  The 
night  was  moony  and  bright,  and  the  water  slept  as 
peacefully  in  the  moonshine  as  if  it  loved  it.  It  was 
cold  withal,  being  in  the  month  of  November,  and  we 
were  tired  with  a  long  tramp  across  the  forest,  having 
appointed  to  meet  E at  the  outlet.  When  I  reach 
ed  the  schoolhouse,  I  found  a  collection  of  men  at  the 
door,  and  on  entering,  found  the  seats  on  both  sides  of 
the  cabin  occupied  by  their  wives  and  daughters.  On 
the  entering  of  some  others,  one  of  the  men  brought  in 
a  sawed  board,  and  placed  it  with  the  ends  resting  on 
the  benches,  so  as  to  form  a  bench  across  the  cabin,  on 
which  half  a  dozen  ladies  sat,  with  their  backs  to  the 
door.  Leaning  against  the  side  of  the  hut,  with  my 
arms  folded,  I  stood,  as  usual,  peering  into  the  dim  light 
at  the  faces  of  the  eager  listeners,  and  admiring  the 
earnestness  with  which  they  seemed  to  seize  every  syl 
lable  of  the  clear  tones  in  which  he  spoke  the  word  of 
life,  when  suddenly  the  board  parted  in  the  middle,  and 
not  less  than  six  of  the  listeners  were  precipitated  in  a 


232  LATER    YEARS. 

heap  on  the  floor  in  the  centre  of  the  cabin.  I  laughed  : 
it's  useless  to  deny  it,  or  apologize.  You  would  have 

laughed,  had  you  been  there.  E ,  always  ready  to 

enjoy  a  joke,  yet  always  grave  even  to  sternness  when 

gravity  is  proper,  even  E was  moved,  and  I  fancied 

I  saw  (perhaps  it  was  only  fancy)  a  familiar  twitching 
at  the  corner  of  his  lip,  which  indicated  his  emotion. 

But  the  group  of  listeners  sat  unmoved.  A  man 
quickly  supplied  a  stump  from  the  wood-pile  where 
with  to  support  the  broken  ends  of  the  board,  and  in  a 
moment  the  whole  room  was  in  profound  silence,  wait 
ing  for  the  word  of  hope  and  promise  to  continue. 

But  I  have  not  spoken  yet  of  Cochecton.  It  was  in 

one  of  these  excursions  with  E that  we  came  out 

here.  A  number  of  highly-intelligent  and  respectable 
families  reside  in  the  valley,  and,  though  some  years 
ago  they  were  in  the  deep  forest,  they  are  now  close  to 
New  York,  and  have  all  the  luxuries  which  daily  com 
munication  with  the  city  makes  convenient.  To  Joe 
and  myself,  the  attraction  here  used  to  be  the  isolation 
of  the  place,  and  its  distance  from  civilization.  The 
trout  were  plenty  in  the  brooks,  and  the  hills  were 
fairly  covered  with  deer. 

I  remember  well,  one  morning,  when  the  frost  was 
on  the  grass,  but  the  sky  not  yet  clouded  over  for  the 
storm  which  the  old  men  prophesied — I  remember,  I 
say,  the  start  for  the  hunt  from  the  hill  immediately 
above  the  rail-road  station.  There  was  Joe,  and  the 
doctor,  and  C ,  and  half  a  dozen  others  besides  my 
self,  and  five  magnificent  dogs  struggling  to  be  away. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  DELAWARE.        233 

We  proposed  still  hunting,  and  kept  the  dogs  in 
leash.  The  day  was  gray  on  the  summit  of  the  east 
ern  hills.  The  stars  were  clear  as  in  winter  nights, 
and  the  crisp  grass  cracked  under  our  feet  as  we  left 
the  road  and  took  to  the  cover. 

Two  miles  from  the  river  we  approached  the  swamp, 
in  the  edges  of  which  the  deer  usually  found  green 
grass  and  water  so  pleasantly  mingled  as  to  make  a 
palatable  breakfast.  We  divided  here,  and  I  took  the 
old  wood  road,  Joe  turning  to  the  left,  and  the  doctor  to 
the  right. 

I  was  watching  the  sky  instead  of  the  forest,  and  so 
glowing  were  the  tints  of  the  east,  that  I  was  aroused 
only  by  a  shout  from  Joe,  and  looked  down  in  time  to 
see  eight  deer  going  over  the  ground  at  a  splendid  pace, 
about  two  gunshots  off  from  me. 

The  run  was  crooked,  and  I  started  across  the  swamp, 
hoping  to  catch  them  before  the  next  turn,  or  on  it. 
Imagine  my  perplexity  at  plunging  into  a  hole  nearly 
up  to  my  arms,  and  picture  me,  if  you  can,  floundering 
through  it,  with  rifle  in  the  air,  and  both  hands  occu 
pied  in  preserving  that  precious  weapon  from  contact 
with  the  mud  and  water.  I  was  out  almost  as  soon  as 
in  it,  but  only  in  time  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  last  of 
the  eight,  as  he  cleared  a  pile  of  fallen  timber,  and 
dashed  away  toward  the  Callicoon. 

An  hour  later  I  was  striding  leisurely  homeward, 
having  lost  all  the  party,  when  I  was  startled  by  a  loud 
yelp  from  Leo,  whose  voice  I  recognized.  Suddenly, 
out  of  the  swamp,  and  across  an  opening  before  me, 


234  LATER  YEARS. 

dashed  a  noble  buck,  with  Leo  on  his  heels.  He  was 
a  long  shot  off  from  me,  but  I  let  him  have  it,  and  he 
tumbled  in  a  heap,  rolled  over  forward  a  complete  som 
erset,  and  before  he  knew  where  he  was  Leo  had  hold 
of  him.  The  deer  was  too  much  for  the  dog  this  time, 
however,  for  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  shook  off  the  teeth 
of  the  hound  with  a  graceful  plunge,  and  dashed  away 
for  the  river.  Ten  minutes  after,  he  took  the  water  just 
above  the  rail-road  station,  and  swam  over,  but  was 
stopped  on  the  opposite  shore  by  a  man  who  was  work 
ing  in  a  corn-field,  with  his  rifle  near  him.  When  I 
reached  the  bank,  he  was  hanging  by  his  heels  on  a 
corner  of  the  rail  fence,  at  the  point  around  which  the 
river  bends,  and  which  you  see  from  the  car  windows 
as  you  pass.  I  paddled  over  the  river,  and  claimed  the 
head  and  hide  on  behalf  of  Leo,  who  had  brought  him 
in,  and  a  good  cut  of  the  haunch  for  myself,  on  account 
of  a  ball  in  the  side,  which  had  operated  as  a  tempo 
rary  stopper,  but  had  no  permanent  effect. 

Time  would  fail  me  to  relate  all  the  pleasant  adven 
tures  on  these  hills.  Such  stories  are  for  firesides  in 
the  winters  of  later  years.  Alas  for  the  necessities  of 
life,  that  chain  us  to  the  city !  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
could  hit  a  barn-door,  at  a  hundred  yards,  with  my  rifle 
now,  and  I  should  not  shoot  at  a  deer  if  I  saw  one,  for 
very  delight  at  seeing  him.  I  smile  at  myself,  seated 
here  in  the  shade  of  a  tree,  with  folio  before  me,  and 
books  around  me,  and  fail  to  recognize  myself  as  the 
same  person  who  shared  those  sports  ;  and  as  the  cars 
go  whistling  and  shrieking  up  and  down  the  valley  of 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  DELAWARE.        235 

the  Delaware,  I  fail  to  recognize  the  lordly  river,  or  the 
"beautiful  valley  where,  in  old  times,  the  sunshine  slept 
in  quiet,  and  the  winds  grew  calm  and  musical  for  love 
of  all  the  beauty  that  was  here. 

It  is  a  poor  exchange,  a  pen  for  a  rifle,  and  books  for 
the  grand  old  forests.  But,  such  as  it  is,  the  weakness 
of  the  body  requires  the  change,  and  needs  must  go 

when  the  devil  drives.    [Memorandum. — My  friend 

thinks  all  illness  comes  from  the  devil,  and  all  health 
from  the  good  Father.] 


XXX. 

JUst. 

July,  18—. 

PAUSE  with  me  one  moment  here,  my  friend,  and 
listen  to  a  memory — listen  to  it,  I  say.  Do  you  not 
hear  it?  To  my  ear  it  is  in  the  whisper  of  the  wind, 
the  rustling  of  the  trees,  the  fall  of  the  stream  down 
yonder  in  the  glen.  To  me  it  is  speaking  in  the  clear 
and  familiar  tones  of  old  times,  full  of  music — that  mu 
sic  which  the  grave  has  not  power  to  hush,  the  earth 
not  weight  enough  to  keep  down,  time  and  change  not 
strength  sufficient  to  overpower.  Again,  and  yet  again, 
thank  God  for  the  holy  voice  of  memory,  which  comes 
out  of  the  past,  out  of  the  unseen  world,  out  of  the  gloom 
of  death,  and  tells  of  the  glorious  things  that  have  been, 
and,  in  the  same  soft  tones,  whispers  of  the  triumphant 
things  that  are  to  be  ;  for  memory  and  hope  are  closely 
allied,  and  the  soul  that  remembers  is  verily  miserable 
if  it  have  no  power  to  look  forward. 

Sit  on  this  rock.  The  mountain  wind  is  on  your 
forehead,  and  you  can  not  hear  aught  save  the  wind  ? 
Is  it  so  ?  The  stream  goes  bubbling  down  the  glen, 
and  you  only  hear  the  rushing  water.  The  leaves  rus 
tle,  and  you  hear  only  their  whispering  sound,  but  can 
distinguish  no  voice.  Yet  I  can  ;  and  how  is  this  1 


REST.  237 

I  will  tell  you.  Sit  you  here,  and  my  voice  shall  be 
the  interpreter  in  the  rude  phrases  which  men  use  to 
convey  thoughts,  and  I  will  try  to  convey  to  you  some 
idea  of  the  story  which  the  voices  of  all  the  beautiful 
things  around  speak  to  me,  in  those  tones  that  reach 
none  but  a  familiar  ear. 

We  are  on  the  brow  of  a  hill  some  twenty  miles  from 
the  rail-road,  and  below  us  lies  a  valley  which,  for  beau 
ty  and  quiet,  is  unsurpassed  in  all  the  world.  Well 
might  our  friend  B call  his  home  Rest,  for  a  calm 
er  refuge  from  the  world  I  know  not ;  and  here,  for 
more  than  a  score  of  years,  he  has  found  a  pleasant  re 
pose.  B had  no  children  of  his  own,  but  adopted 

the  orphan  daughter  of  a  distant  relative,  and  brought 
her  up  as  his  own  child,  although  without  change  of 
name.  I  may  as  well  write  her  name  here  in  full ;  for 

it  is  a  melancholy  fact,  that,  except  the  family  of  B , 

there  is  not  living  one  person  in  whose  veins  there  is 
kindred  blood  to  hers.  But  Effie  Lee  was  known  and 
loved  by  many  young  and  many  old  hearts.  She  lack 
ed  no  kindred  by  blood,  for  she  bound  herself  to  every 
one  by  the  strongest  ties  of  gentleness,  and  purity,  and 
holy  life.  To  say  that  she  was  a  beautiful  child  would 
be  saying  very  little,  for  she  was  more  than  beautiful 
The  dust  of  which  she  was  made  had  been  the  blos 
soms  of  the  violet,  and  forget-me-not,  and  lilies  of  the 
valley.  At  thirteen  she  was  apparently  seventeen, 
save  only  in  the  childish  purity  of  her  character ;  but  at 
fifteen  she  seemed  just  fifteen,  and  as  full  of  grace  and 
gentleness  as  fifteen  summers  ought  to  be. 


238  LATER    YEARS. 

And  now  her  life  was  like  a  dream  of  life,  beautiful, 
and  fresh,  and  joyful.  And  here  be  it  remembered 
that  the  soul  of  Effie  Lee  was  never  disturbed  by  earth 
ly  love,  and  its  impulses  flowed  out  toward  the  Father 
of  all  in  a  calm  and  undeviating  current.  If  there  was 
ever  a  life  that  could,  by  its  trustful,  faithful,  prayerful 
earnestness  and  humility,  win  an  observer  to  follow  in 
the  footsteps  of  a  worshipper  in  our  most  holy  faith, 
hers  was  such  ;  and  that  child's  prayers  and  songs  are 
recorded  in  gleaming  characters  somewhere.  Pray  that 
you  and  I  may  be  so  blessed  as  to  read  them. 

But  some  who  read  this  will,  perhaps,  sneer  at  the 
character  thus  sketched.  Let  them  sneer.  She  was 
one  in  ten  thousand.  But  you  err  if  you  imagine  that 
her  life  was  necessarily  a  vigil  and  fast,  or  a  dull,  quiet 
rest  at  home,  or  a  long  succession  of  alms,  and  good 
deeds,  and  church-going,  and  the  like.  No,  no.  She 
failed  nothing  in  her  duty  in  all  these  things,  but  she 
was  human  as  well  as  pure.  She  loved  the  mountains, 
the  winds,  every  thing.  She  loved  her  horse,  and  nev 
er  was  one  better  worth  loving.  He  was  a  noble  ani 
mal,  swift  as  the  wind,  and  almost  as  graceful.  No 
one  rode  him  but  Effie,  and  he  knew  her  hand  on  the 
rein,  and  returned  her  affection  by  his  careful  delight 

when  he  carried  her.  Her  father  (so  she  called  B ) 

had  selected  this  magnificent  animal  for  her  three 
years  previous  to  the  time  of  which  I  write,  and  she 
loved  the  giver  for  the  gift,  and  the  gift  for  the  giver. 
I  have  never  seen  a  stronger  attachment  than  subsisted 
between  that  father  and  child.  For  years  and  years 


REST.  239 

she  had  lain  on  his  breast  in  the  twilight  of  every  even 
ing,  and  found  one  and  the  same  never-weary  embrace 
there. 

One  brilliant  autumn  morning  she  had  been  away  on 
her  horse,  alone,  as  she  frequently  went,  and  was  com 
ing  down  the  mountain  toward  noon.  She  had  a  hor 
ror  of  the  sports  of  the  forest,  and  often  endeavored  to 
dissuade  her  friends  from  joining  them.  The  old  hunt 
ers  all  knew  and  reverenced  her,  and  it  was  not  an  un 
common  thing  for  her  to  rescue  game  from  their  hands 
or  rifles  by  a  simple  look  or  a  single  word.  So  famed 
was  she  for  this,  that  the  utmost  exertions  were  always 
made  to  bring  the  game  down  by  a  distant  run,  and  so 
avoid  the  chance  of  meeting  her. 

This  morning,  however,  the  deer  left  the  cover  with 
in  two  hundred  yards  of  her,  and  dashed  across  the 
plain  toward  the  lake.  Without  a  moment's  hesitation, 
she  lifted  her  horse  to  the  chase,  probably  with  the 
idea  that  she  might  turn  the  deer  from  the  run,  and  so 
save  him  from  the  rifle  that  was  doubtless  waiting  him 
at  the  water's  edge. 

It  was  a  gallant  chase.  She  was  close  on  the  game, 
and  her  horse  went  along  over  the  plain  bottom  land 
with  a  splendid  stride.  He  was  a  rapid  pacer,  but  she 
lifted  him  to  a  run,  and  he  gained  on  the  deer.  The 
latter,  frightened  at  the  proximity  of  the  horse  and 
rider,  who  now  led  the  hounds  two  hundred  yards, 
dashed  through  a  small  patch  of  swamp,  and  doubled 
like  a  fox.  She  was  close  on  him,  and,  by  a  dexterous 
touch  of  her  rein,  she  headed  him  entirely.  He  was  a 


240  LATER    YEARS. 

fine  buck,  and  a  proud  one ;  and  now,  at  bay,  he  paused 
a  moment,  and  sprang  against  the  breast  of  the  noble 
horse.  But  the  quick  eye  of  the  rider  caught  the  move 
ment,  and  the  horse  sprang  forward  and  avoided  the 
antlers  of  the  mad  deer.  Again  commenced  the  chase, 
as  the  game  took  the  old  run  down  to  the  lake.  For 
nearly  half  a  mile  now  they  went  along,  deer,  hounds, 
and  horse  almost  together.  Her  loose,  golden  hair  was 
streaming  in  the  wind,  shaken  from  its  usual  tight  knot 
by  the  unaccustomed  speed  and  excitement.  About 
a  hundred  paces  were  between  them  and  the  river. 
The  deer,  still  leading,  passed  the  corner  of  a  close 
hedge  of  swamp  alder,  when  a  rifle  shot  stopped  him. 
He  made  one  long  leap  into  the  air,  and  fell,  while  the 
horse,  close  on  him,  lifted  over  the  falling  game  by  the 
steady  hand  of  the  rider,  cleared  him  at  a  flying  leap, 
but  struck  his  fore  feet  in  the  loose  wet  soil,  filled  with 
roots  of  trees,  and  fell  headlong,  throwing  his  rider 
heavily  on  the  ground  beyond. 

All  was  over  in  an  instant.  The  chase  was  ended 
suddenly  and  sadly  enough.  The  game  was  dead. 
The  horse  was  ruined,  and  lay  on  the  ground  unable  to 
rise.  The  rider  lay  like  a  crushed  flower,  motionless 
and  pale,  and  her  heart  had  almost  ceased  to  beat. 

She  was  carried  swiftly  home,  and,  as  they  entered 
the  house,  the  voice  of  her  father,  exclaiming  in  a  tone 
of  agony,  reached  her  ears.  She  opened  her  eyes, 
smiled,  reached  out  her  hands,  spoke,  but  what  word 
they  knew  not  (it  was  but  one,  and  that  most  likely 
was  "  father"),  and  then  she  spoke  no  more,  nor  smiled 


REST.  241 

any  more,  nor  stretched  out  her  arms  again  for  an  em 
brace,  nor  looked  ever  again  on  the  face  of  her  father. 

Long  after  that,  one  quiet  summer  evening,  I  found 
Joe  Willis  sitting  on  the  rock  where  years  ago  she  loved 
to  sit,  and  I  stole  the  scraps  of  paper  on  which  he  had 
been  penciling.  On  the  one  scrap  was  a  sketch  of  her 
head,  life-like  and  serenely  beautiful.  He  had  always 
been  proud  of  her,  and  she  numbered  Mr.  Willis  among 
her  choicest  friends.  (Mark  well,  however,  that  there 
was  no  love  between  them,  for  she  was  a  child  to  his 
years.) 

On  the  other  scrap  of  paper  were  these  lines,  to  which 
he  had  already  given  the  title  "From  Heaven"  which 
they  now  bear. 

OURANOTHEN. 

Dear  Effie  Lee,  thy  memory 

Is  like  the  stars  at  night ; 
Far,  far  away,  but  pure  as  they, 

And  just  as  full  of  light ; 
And  like  that  star,  which  gleams  afar 

With  loving  ray  and  soft, 
Thy  spirit,  from  its  distant  home, 

Seems  shining  on  me  oft. 

Sweet  Effie  Lee,  sad,  sad  must  be 

That  day  for  evermore, 
When,  tempest  toss'd,  in  darkness  lost, 

She  drifted  from  the  shore  ; 
Our  child,  our  darling,  our  delight, 

Alone,  as  ne'er  before, 
In  her  frail  boat,  went  floating  out, 

The  unknown  ocean  o'er. 
L 


242  LATER    YEARS. 

Once,  mournfully,  sweet  Effie  Lee 

Call'd  back  ere  she  was  gone ; 
One  tiny  shout  came  ringing  out, 

And  then  we  were  alone  ; 
And  then,  far,  far  beyond  that  star, 

Soft  as  the  breath  of  even, 
Or  leaflets  stirred  by  winds,  we  heard 

The  blessed  sounds  of  heaven. 

And  sometimes  now,  soft,  sweet,  and  low, 

Upon  that  unknown  strand, 
The  breaking  sea's  deep  melody 

We  hear,  and,  hand  in  hand, 
We  think  we  see  sweet  Effie  Leo 

With  holy  angels  stand  ; 
And  like  a  dream,  or  starry  gleam, 

Her  voice  comes  from  that  land. 

Sweet  Effie  Lee,  when  thou  and  we 

Together  stand  again, 
Will  thy  sweet  voice  again  rejoice 

Our  hearts  with  that  old  strain  1 
In  thy  bright  home  beyond  the  gloom, 

The  sorrow,  and  the  pain, 
Wilt  thou  be  press'd  unto  the  breast 

Where  thou  so  oft  hast  lain  1 

Dear  Effie  Lee,  thy  memory 

Is  like  the  stars  at  night ; 
Far,  far  away,  and  pure  as  they, 

And  just  as  full  of  light ; 
And  like  that  star,  which  gleams  afar 

With  soft  and  gentle  glow, 
Thy  spirit,  from  its  distant  home, 

Seems  shining  on  me  now. 

Whether  there  be  any  beauty  in  Joe's  fancy  of  that 


REST.  243 

fair  child  or  not,  there  is  more  than  I  can  tell  you  in  the 
memory  that  haunts  these  hills  ;  and  after  long  wander 
ing,  it  is  pleasant  (how  pleasant !)  to  return  to  the  val 
ley  by  the  lake,  and  recall  the  beautiful  vision  that 
never  disobeys  our  word. 

Did  I  not  tell  you  that  I  should  find  some  such  mem 
ories  along  the  line  of  this  road  ?  To-morrow  I  shall 
be  lying  in  the  broad  arm-chair  of  the  car-seat,  and  fly 
ing  through  the  valley  where  I  used  to  trudge  wearily 
enough  at  about  one  mile  an  hour. 


XXXI. 

§1  p   t  jj  *   D  *  I  B  m  n  r  *. 

July,  18—. 

NOT  more  than  half  a  dozen,  miles  above  Cochecton, 
on  the  east  bank  of  the  Delaware  still,  you  cross 
the  mouth  of  the  Callicoon,  once  a  magnificent  trout 
stream  ;  and,  I  am  told,  in  some  of  those  deep  holes 
that  are  unapproachable  except  by  the  footsteps  of  care 
ful  woodmen,  familiar  with  the  windings  and' plunges 
of  the  stream,  some  of  these  large  old  fellows  still  lie 
and  fatten,  as  they  used  before  the  rail-road  had  turned 
a  host  of  starving  Irishmen  to  feed  on  the  products  of 
the  brook,  or  almost  as  large  a  host  of  citizens  to  kill 
all  the  fish,  great  or  small,  that  will  take  their  hooks. 

The  Callicoon  is  a  grand  stream,  and  deservedly  has 
immortality  in  the  pleasant  verse  of  Street,  who  is, 
perhaps,  as  familiar  as  any  other  living  man,  with  all 
the  favorite  haunts  of  the  trout  in  its  changing  bed. 
The  characteristic  of  all  the  streams  of  Sullivan  County 
is  that,  besides  their  swift  rapids  and  abrupt  plunges, 
contrasting  with  a  deep,  steady  flow  between  shady 
banks,  most  of  them  are  from  one  to  two  hundred  feet 
below  the  level  of  the  upland,  and  are  running  in  deep 
dells  or  dark  ravines,  where  the  stranger  would  hesitate 
to  venture.  Such  places  the  trout  love,  and  I  believe 


UP    THE    DELAWARE.  245 

I  may  safely  affirm  that  no  county  in  the  state  has  as 
fine  trout  streams  as  Sullivan  had  ten  years  ago.  But 
times  are  changed,  and  it  was  the  only  sad  thing  about 
the  opening  of  this  great  road,  that  it  exposed  to  the 
rude  gaze  of  thousands,  every  week,  those  pleasant 
solitudes  and  haunts  where  wo  used  to  be  monarchs  of 
all  we  saw. 

Ah!  Joe — Joe  Willis,  you  never  will  sit  with  me 
again  on  the  bank  of  the  Callicoon,  and  hear  the  rust 
ling  of  the  wind  on  the  mountains,  and  sing  the  brave 
old  songs  that  used  to  make  the  forests  ring !  And 
why  ?  Because  I  shall  never  see  the  Callicoon  again 
myself,  except  from  the  window  of  a  rail-car  as  I  fly 
through  the  valley,  bound  westward.  I  can  not  loiter 
here  now  as  I  did  then,  nor  is  there  the  welcome  that 
we  used  to  have  ;  for  the  rail-road,  while  it  has  brought 
many  into  the  forest,  has  carried  our  old  friend  Sim  out 
of  it,  and  placed  him  in  the  great  city,  where  he  sells 
lumber  that  was  once  the  lordly  forest  we  so  loved. 

Five  miles  farther  brings  us  to  a  broad  piece  of  bot 
tom-land,  rich  with  grain  and  hay,  of  which  I  will  tell 
you  a  hunting-story  as  we  pass  swiftly  by. 

The  river  skirts  the  base  of  a  mountain,  sweeping  in 
nearly  a  semicircle  around  a  crescent-shaped  piece  of 
level  land,  which  is  again  backed  by  a  high  hill  covered 
with  forest.  The  land  within  sight  is  the  property  of 
a  friend  with  whom  we  used  to  pass  considerable  time, 
and  his  residence  is  in  full  view  from  the  cars. 

When  the  Erie  road  was  at  first  projected  and  a  track 
surveyed  through  this  valley,  a  grade  was  commenced 


246  LATER    YEARS. 

and  then  abandoned  for  some  years,  until  we  began  to 
hope  it  would  be  entirely  forgotten  and  a  new  route 
settled  on,  which  should  leave  its  crowd  of  pleasure 
(and  game)  seekers  elsewhere  than  on  the  Delaware. 
Up  to  that  time  the  deer  on  the  mountains  had  been 
abundant,  and  two  of  the  best  runs  in  all  the  valley 
were  at  the  two  extremities  of  the  half-moon  shaped 
farm  I  have  described.  Put  out  your  dogs  in  New 
York,  and  they  were  sure  to  bring  the  deer  down  the 
steep  run  by  the  upper  end,  or  through  the  gulley  at  the 
lower  end,  and  as  he  crossed  the  river  toward  the  shore 
on  the  Pennsylvania  side,  you  had  a  fair  opportunity  to 
take  him. 

It  was  on  the  track  of  the  road  that  the  last  deer 
which  I  shot  in  the  Delaware  country  fell,  and  the  con 
trast  between  this  day  and  that  was  so  great  that  I  was 
led  to  mention  it  to  M yesterday. 

It  was  a  cold,  cloudy,  and  dismal  morning.  None 
of  the  exhilaration  which  you  usually  feel  in  clear  au 
tumn  mornings  helped  our  spirits,  and  we  were  half 
inclined  to  abandon  hunting  that  day,  when  a  stray 
gleam  of  sunshine  fortunately  tangled  itself  in  the 
hemlock  branches  on  the  side  of  the  hill  long  enough 
to  be  seen  by  us  before  it  expired  in  the  deep  recesses 
of  the  forest.  E was  with  us  ;  and  Joe  and  my 
self,  with  Sim  for  master  of  the  hounds,  formed  the 
party.  At  eight  o'clock  I  sent  Sim  out  with  the  dogs 
in  New  York,  and  after  he  had  been  absent  an  hour  or 

so,  we  took  our  stands,  E- at  the  lower  run,  Joe 

at  the  middle  on  the  New  York  side,  and  I  at  the  up- 


UP    THE    DELAWARE.  247 

per  run.  What  degree  of  comfort  Joe  and  E might 

have  experienced,  I  am  unable  to  say  ;  but  for  myself,  I 
shall  not  soon  forget  the  chilly  dampness  of  the  air,  and 
scarcely  more  chilly  dampness  of  the  water,  in  which  I 
stood  two  hours  under  a  hazel  bush,  waiting  for  the 
deer.  It  was  two  hours  before  I  heard  the  dogs,  and 
they  were  then  approaching  by  the  upper  run ;  but 
while  they  were  at  least  four  miles  away,  a  buck  came 
down  the  run  toward  the  water.  He  took  it  very  leis 
urely,  evidently  hearing  the  dogs,  and  yet,  apparent 
ly,  not  caring  much,  certainly  not  fearing  any ;  but  as 
he  reached  the  water's  edge,  he  paused,  and  possibly 
caught  sight  of  me  crouching  under  the  low  bushes, 
for  he  wheeled  with  his  fine  head  thrown  up,  and  dash 
ed  off  up  the  mountain  side.  It  was  a  long  shot,  but  I 
sent  a  bullet  after  him  which  broke  a  piece  from  a  stone 
just  behind  him.  A  moment  afterward  he  was  out  of 
sight ;  but  I  knew  he  was  going  toward  the  lower  run, 
which  he  would  reach  in  a  very  few  minutes. 

A  canoe  was  near,  and  I  jumped  into  it,  pushed  off, 
and  paddled  down  the  river.  Before  I  had  passed  half 
the  distance,  I  saw  him  come  out  by  the  lower  run,  and 

take  the  water.  He  crossed,  and  E met  him  with 

a  ball  which  went  through  his  neck,  and  lay  under  the 
skin  on  the  opposite  side  to  that  which  it  entered.  He 
staggered  and  fell  in  the  shoal  water,  but,  gathering 
himself  up,  turned  back  for  the  east  shore,  where  the 
dogs  were  now  standing,  watching  him. 

I  was  driving  my  canoe  as  swiftly  as  possible  down 
the  rapids.  The  deer  was  in  the  middle  of  the  river, 


248  LATER    YEARS. 

twenty  rods  below  me,  and  swimming  faster  than  I 
paddled.  I  had  but  a  moment  for  consideration,  and 
determined  to  take  to  the  shore.  In  a  second,  I  sent 
the  little  canoe  high  and  dry  on  the  beach,  and,  spring 
ing  out,  ran  down  the  rail-road  grade,  hidden  from  the 
river  by  dense  bushes.  I  had  not  gone  a  hundred  yards 
when  the  buck  crossed  the  track  before  me,  with  both 
dogs  on  his  heels,  and  I  shot.  What  was  the  matter 
with  my  aim  that  day,  I  know  not,  but  my  ball  missed 
every  thing  except  the  point  of  his  hind  leg,  which  it 
shattered.  A  deer  moves  about  as  well  with  one  as 
with  two  hind  legs,  while  the  loss  of  a  fore  leg  brings 
him  down  at  the  first  leap.  He  passed  on  rapidly 
enough,  but  the  dogs  turned  him,  and  he  took  the  bank 
above  the  rail-road  grade,  where  I  gave  him  the  last 
ball,  and  brought  him  tumbling  through  the  bushes 
down  to  the  rail-road  track,  almost  at  my  feet.  Here 
I  drew  my  knife  across  his  throat  and  he  died. 

The  scene  is  changed  now.  That  day,  at  noon,  the 
clouds  were  breaking  overhead,  and  a  flood  of  sunshine 
poured  down  into  the  ravines.  The  river  went  along 
with  majestic  flow  through  the  silent  valley,  and  a 
calm,  as  if  the  place  was  a  sanctuary,  rested  over  all. 
Now  the  cars  go  screaming  and  whistling  along  the 
river  banks,  and,  before  you  have  an  opportunity  to  rec 
ognize  the  valley,  much  less  to  look  at  familiar  rocks 
and  trees,  you  are  miles  away  to  the  northward,  and, 
while  the  memories  which  that  glimpse  has  aroused 
are  yet  haunting  your  brain,  you  are  on  the  shore  of 
Lake  Erie. 


UP    THE    DELAWARE.  249 

We  are  growing  old  fast — Joe  Willis  and  I,  and  are 
not  now  the  boys  we  were  when  that  valley  smiled 
around  us,  and  the  banks  of  the  Delaware  were  our  favor 
ite  places  of  rest.  The  strong  river  of  life  has  borne  us 
far  on  our  travels,  and  the  day  and  the  hour  is  at  hand 
when  we  must  go  forth,  each  one  alone,  to  travel  in  un 
known  countries.  Go  forth,  I  say,  for  the  prison  of  life 
is  ready  to  break  open  at  the  visits  of  the  angel,  and 
the  chains  will  drop  off,  and  we  will  be  at  liberty. 

We  shall  die.  The  dust  of  which  we  are  part  will 
reclaim  its  kindred,  and,  strong  as  the  ties  are  that  hold 
us  here,  we  shall  burst  them  all. 

But  sometimes  I  have  thought  it  would  be  pleasant 
in  the  later  hours,  when  the  moment  of  departure  is  at 
hand,  to  rest  a  little  while  in  those  old  haunts,  and 
hear  for  a  little  while  those  dear  old  sounds.  And 
there  is  no  sadness  nor  sentimentality  in  such  thoughts  ; 
for  it  would  be  pleasant  to  leave  the  world  from  one  of 
its  most  beautiful  hills,  and  I  fancy  one  might  go  more 
quietly  to  his  rest  in  such  a  place  than  amid  the  roar 
of  a  great  city. 

L2 


XXXII. 


Valley  of  the  Delaware,  July  30,  18  —  . 

I  CAN  not  very  well  keep  away  from  these  old 
haunts.  Years  ago,  long  before  the  Erie  rail-road 
was  projected,  and  long  before  the  first  shovelful  of 
dirt  was  thrown  out  on  the  bank  of  the  Delaware,  I 
used  to  wander  on  foot  up  and  down  these  magnificent 
passes,  and  enjoy,  with  keen  zest,  the  lonesome  beauty 
of  these  lordly  hills.  Sometimes,  when  we  were  tired 
of  the  lazy  life  we  then  led,  Joe  Willis  and  myself 
would  take  to  the  old  turnpike  road  from  Newburgh, 
and,  after  a  sixty-mile  drive,  would  reach  the  bank  of 
the  Delaware  at  Cochecton,  and,  leaving  our  horses  in 
the  stable  of  friends  there,  would  enter  the  forest,  rifle 
in  hand,  and  penetrate  to  the  cabin  of  some  old  friend, 
and  pass  a  week  with  him  in  the  sports  which  no  other 
forests  excelled.  For  trout,  we  used  to  think  there  was 
no  stream  equal  to  the  Callicoon  or  the  Willaweemock 
(and,  in  truth,  the  "VVillaweemock  is  to  this  day  unri 
valed)  ;  and  for  pickerel,  the  dark  pike  pond,  twelve 
miles  up  in  the  Callicoon  country,  was  and  is  unsur 
passed  ;  while  the  hills  about  Liberty,  White  Lake,  and 
Kellum's  were  swarming  with  deer.  One  of  our  favor 
ite  places  of  resort  was  near  White  Lake,  and  I  remem- 


THE    FOREST.  251 

ber  once  catching  a  fine  buck  in  the  deep  snows  of  an 
early  winter,  not  far  from  Roosa's,  and  near  the  present 
hotel. 

What  changes  the  Erie  road  has  wrought  and  is 
working  !  In  the  first  place,  the  hosts  of  laborers  on 
the  road  cleaned  out  the  trout  from  the  lower  parts  of 
the  streams,  and  you  could  not  raise  a  fin  in  the  last 
three  miles  of  the  Callicoon.  Then  the  rail-cars  turned 
a  tide  of  pin-hook  and  brown-thread  fishermen  through 
the  valley,  and  the  pike,  out  of  disgust,  I  fancy,  at  being 
slighted  by  such  ad  venturers,  deserted  all  the  accessible 
ponds ;  and  then  a  large  hotel  here,  and  a  water-tank 
there,  and  a  screaming  whistle,  and  a  roaring,  thundering 
train  of  cars,  changed  the  solitary  beauty  of  the  scene. 

And  yet  it  was  only  changed — not  harmed,  for  still 
I  can  find  the  old  hills,  and  the  old  ravines,  and  the  old 
streams,  with  the  same  old  music  ;  and  although  that 
exquisite  brook  with  which  I  fell  in  love,  and  on  whose 
bank  I  used  to  read  Undine,  and  conjure  up  sprites  and 
water-goddesses,  does  go  quietly  and  demurely  into  a 
water-tank  at  its  outlet,  instead  of  rushing  delightedly, 
as  of  old,  into  the  embrace  of  the  Delaware,  yet  (oh ! 
enviable  characteristic)  I  may,  by  tracing  back  its 
course,  find  the  brook  in  its  unchanging  youth,  with  its 
same  clear,  laughing  voice  and  sparkling  countenance, 
and  here,  by  its  side,  my  forehead  cool  with  its  kisses, 
I  am  looking  into  the  waterfall,  where  it  dashes  down 
the  rocks,  and  writing  this  scrawl  on  the  blank  leaves 
that  I  tear  out  of  the  book  I  was  reading. 

The  blank  leaves  are  all  torn  out,  and  my  paper  is, 


252  LATER    YEARS. 

of  course,  nearly  exhausted.  I  should  have  thought  to 
bring  a  folded  sheet  between  the  leaves,  and  then — 

I  was  interrupted  curiously.  The  lady  who  sat  near 
me  was  conversing  with  Joe  Willis,  and,  having  grown 
tired  of  holding  a  line  which  was  in  her  hand,  while 
the  other  end  was  in  the  water  with  a  hook  and  a  bait, 
she  had  quietly  made  it  fast  to  the  long  ribbon  of  my 
broad-brim,  wherewith  I  am  accustomed  to  fasten  the 
hat  to  my  button-hole.  How  she  came  to  bring  the 
line  without  a  rod,  or  who  baited  it  for  her,  I  am  igno 
rant,  the  first  information  which  I  received  being  by 
the  sudden  start  of  my  hat,  and  its  plunge  into  the  pool 
of  water. 

Rather  astonished,  and  thinking  some  one  had  struck 
the  hat  from  my  head,  I  turned  lazily  around,  but  saw 
no  one  near  enough  for  that,  and  now  the  hat  seemed 
actually  alive,  for  it  was  traveling  down  toward  the  out 
let  which  led  into  another  large  pool  below.  The  hat 
being  Chinese,  and  of  close,  compact  material,  floated 
well,  and  I  stationed  myself  at  the  outlet  with  a  pole, 
with  which  I  rescued  it  as  it  shot  down,  while  the  rest 
of  the  party,  just  awakening  to  the  ludicrous  nature  of 
the  occurrence,  were  shouting  their  laughter. 

Imagine  my  astonishment  at  finding  the  line  with  a 
stout  pull  on  the  other  end.  Joe  was  at  my  side  in 
a  moment,  and  explained  how  the  line  came  there. 
"  What  have  you  got,  Philip  ?" 

"  A  shark,  Joe — only  feel  how  he  pulls." 

"  More  like  a  young  rhinoceros — I  never  felt  a  fish 
jerk  that  way." 


THE    FOREST.  253 

"  I  say,  Joe,  whose  line  is  this,  yours  or  mine  ?" 
"  My  old  one.     It  will  hold  any  thing." 
"  Then  here  goes  for  a  pull  at  the  old  fellow,"  said  I, 
and,  shouldering  the  line,  I  walked  up  the  bank,  draw 
ing  the  unknown  monster  after  me,  but  he  brought  me 
up  in  a  moment,  and  Willis  uttered  an  exclamation  of 
astonishment. 

"  Hold  on  hard,  Philip,"  said  he,  and,  stepping  into 
the  brook,  he  stooped  and  dexterously  threw  up  on  the 
bank  a  large  snapping  turtle  !  He  would  weigh  at  the 
least  five  pounds,  perhaps  ten,  for  I  am  not  given  to 
estimating  the  weight  of  turtles.  A  general  exclama 
tion  of  astonishment  succeeded  the  landing  of  this  novel 
sort  of  fish.  He  had  taken  the  worm  as  naturally  as  a 
trout,  and  had  hooked  himself  beyond  escape.  How  to 
get  the  hook  out  of  his  mouth  was  the  next  question. 
Any  approach  was  decidedly  dangerous,  and  after  amus 
ing  ourselves  for  a  few  minutes  with  the  angry  demon 
strations  of  the  captive,  we  cut  the  line  as  close  as  I 
dared  venture  my  fingers  to  his  mouth,  and  he  waddled 
off  with  the  hook,  worm,  and  sinkers.  I  hope  he  may 
digest  them.  I  don't  know  how  the  fellow  had  come 
to  leave  his  hole  in  the  mud  for  such  clear  water  as 
this  was,  but  he  had  probably  been  carried  away  in  the 
current,  and  brought  up  at  the  foot  of  the  fall. 

So  I  returned  to  my  paper,  and  have  jotted  down  this 
small  adventure  on  the  blank  leaf  that  was  left,  and  on 
the  last  leaf  of  a  letter. 

I  would  like  well  to  describe  to  you  the  beauty  of 
this  valley  in  which  we  are  resting.  The  green  mount- 


254  LATER    YEARS. 

ain  sides  surround  it,  and  the  lordly  river  comes  into 
the  arena  with  a  bound  over  swift  rapids,  then  pauses 
a  moment,  and  flows  out  calmly  and  quietly  to  the  next 
rapid  below.  So  still  and  calm  is  the  lower  part  of  the 
basin,  that  you  may  see  every  tree  on  the  hills  reflected 
in  the  surface  ;  and  when  the  evening  comes  down,  as 
every  evening  comes  here,  with  the  glowing  of  golden 
clouds,  deep  blue  sky,  waving  forest,  and  shining  stream, 
with  the  soft,  hushing  murmur  of  tree-tops,  and  the  low 
voice  of  the  brook  among  the  trees  in  the  ravine — when 
the  twilight  grows  cool  and  gray  toward  the  dark,  and 
the  air  is  rich,  and  life-giving,  and  glorious,  we  sit  to 
gether,  a  merry,  happy  group,  and  tell  stories  of  the  old 
times,  or  sing  songs,  or  sit  in  silence,  and  listen  to  the 
voices  of  the  forest  till  midnight  and  sleepy  time  over 
take  us. 


XXXIII. 

a  $E  it  tint 

August,  18 — . 

THE  evening  came  on  quietly,  and  with  a  cool,  soft 
air  stealing  down  from  the  mountains,  that  seem 
ed  to  be  life-giving  and  invigorating.  The  day's  sport 
had  been  good.  We  had  taken  over  a  hundred  trout, 
of  which  we  had  thrown  back  some  eighty  that  were 
too  small  to  suit  our  tastes  when  large  ones  were  so 
plenty  ;  and,  retaining  two  dozen  that  weighed  from  a 
half  pound  to  two  pounds  and  a  half  each,  we  had  re 
turned  to  the  hotel  in  the  gloaming,  and  dined  on  the 
appetites  and  the  trout  which  we  brought  home  with 
us.  I  had  shot  a  couple  of  woodcock,  and  those  were 
specially  dedicated  to  the  breakfast  of  two  of  the  ladies, 
who  were  convalescent  invalids  ;  and  the  landlord  of 
this  hostelrie  hath  a  cook  who  understands  how  to  cook 
trout  and  woodcock,  as  I  well  know.  So,  having  abun 
dantly  dined,  we  came,  all  of  us,  out  to  the  piazza  of 
the  hotel,  which  overlooks  the  basin  of  the  river,  where 
of  I  spoke  in  my  last  letter  ;  and,  having  smoked  a  qui 
et  cigar  and  hummed  a  quiet  tune,  Joe  "Willis,  who  had 
elevated  his  boots  to  the  rail  in  front  of  him,  suddenly 
broke  the  silence,  and  we  were  attentive  to  his  story : 
"  Let  me  see.  It  must  be  twenty  years  ago — eight- 


256  LATER    YEARS. 

een  hundred  and  thirty-two — yes,  it  was  that  fall  that 
I  was  in  this  valley.  I  came  down  from  Delhi — alone, 
through  the  forest  and  the  bridle-paths,  on  foot,  to  this 
valley.  I  had  crossed  the  Catskills,  and  had  penetrated 
to  Delhi,  scarcely  knowing  what  I  was  after.  The  au 
tumn  was  pleasant,  and  I  was  in  fine  health  and  spir 
its,  and  with  the  rifle  and  rod  I  had  fed  myself  tolerably 
well  when  I  could  not  find  shelter  in  the  farm-houses. 
After  passing  the  East  Branch  it  was  heavy  work,  and  I 
slept  two  nights  in  the  woods,  with  a  cold,  drizzling  rain, 
soaking  me,  body  and  soul — yes,  I  was  soaked  to  the  very 
depths  of  my  soul.  It  was  awfully  lonesome.  I,  who 
had  roughed  it  with  hunters  in  the  wilds  of  Canada, 
who  had  slept  forty  nights  on  the  sands  of  Edom,  who 
had  lived  six  months  in  South  American  forests,  and 
six  more  in  the  swamps  of  Florida,  was  horribly  lone 
some  and  actually  afraid  to  sleep  out  in  the  dark  with 
out  a  companion,  and  the  reason  was  simply  this :  I 
had  slept  one  night  in  a  cabin  near  the  East  Branch, 
and  all  night  long  had  heard  strange  sounds,  distant,  but 
inexpressibly  mournful.  I  should  have  thought  it  a 
panther,  but  it  was  too  sweet  in  its  modulations,  too 
much  like  the  low  notes  of  the  JEolian,  and  I  could  not 
believe  it  had  so  rude  an  origin.  I  was  almost  sleep 
less  that  night,  thinking  of  a  thousand  causes  for  that 
strange  sound.  The  next  night  I  was  alone  in  the  dark 
est  forest,  I  think,  that  I  had  ever  penetrated.  Rolling 
myself  in  my  blanket,  with  my  feet  to  the  coals  of  a 
glorious  fire,  I  was  fast  falling  into  a  sound  sleep,  when 
that  same  wail  again  sounded  in  my  ears,  with  a  weird, 


A    PANTHER.  257 

clear,  thrilling  mournfulness,  that  started  me  to  my  feet. 
It  was  not  within  five  miles  of  me,  if  it  was  an  earthly 
voice  at  all,  but  I  could  not  sleep,  and  as  I  walked  up 
and  clown  before  the  fire,  the  rain  began  to  drizzle,  and 
then  to  pour.  I  threw  on  fresh  logs,  but  they  blazed 
only  with  a  fitful  glare,  and  at  length  the  rain  conquer 
ed  ;  the  torrents  that  fell  fairly  extinguished  the  last 
spark,  and  left  me  in  the  blackness  of  darkness. 

"  I  was  on  the  east  bank  of  the  river.  The  forest 
came  down  to  the  very  edge  of  the  water ;  and,  having 
given  up  all  hope  of  rekindling  my  fire,  I  found  my  way 
to  the  side  of  the  stream,  and,  with  my  blanket  wrap 
ped  closely  over  my  shoulders  and  head,  sat  down  with 
my  back  to  a  large  rock,  and  waited  patiently  for  the 
dawn.  I  can  not  well  give  you  an  idea  of  the  strange 
effect  that  those  cries  produced  on  me  :  all  night  long, 
now  rising,  now  falling,  now  faint  and  broken,  now 
clear,  and  full,  and  almost  angry  in  their  melody,  they 
thrilled  through  and  through  me.  I  grew  nervous,  and 
feared  to  look  around.  I  concluded,  long  before  the 
daybreak,  that  it  could  not  be  the  voice  of  any  living 
being,  and  had  exhausted  all  my  philosophy  to  account 
for  it  as  the  voice  of  the  wind  among  rocks  or  trees.  I 
thought  of  all  the  ghost-stories  I  had  heard,  and  of  the 
Banshee,  and  the  Arabian  warnings,  and  the  Indian 
death-songs,  and  all  the  prophetic  sounds  in  legend  or 
story  ;  but  the  morning  came,  and  my  courage  return 
ed  with  the  daylight,  and  grew  marvelously  bold  with 
sunrise  and  a  clear  sky.  So  I  trudged  on  down  the  val 
ley,  shot  an  occasional  bird,  and  ate  breakfast,  lunch, 


258  LATER    YEARS. 

dinner,  and  supper  with  my  usual  appetite,  and  read 
half  an  hour  by  the  firelight,  until  I  fell  asleep. 

"  I  slept  soundly  for  a  couple  of  hours,  when  I  dream 
ed  one  of  those  quaint  dreams  that  often  haunt  me  in 
forest  sleep.  Troops  of  old  friends  surrounded  me,  and 
followed  each  other  out  of  my  presence  in  rapid  succes 
sion,  until  all  were  gone  but  one  group  —  that  group 
which  is  the  dearest  one  in  all  memory.  I  thank  God 
for  dreams.  I  love  to  dream.  They,  the  dear  old 
faces,  come  back  to  me,  the  dear  old  voices  again  sound 
in  my  ears  their  familiar  tones  and  words  of  love,  and 
the  dead  have  a  blessed  resurrection  in  my  soul.  So 
it  was  then ;  and  with  my  head  on  a  log,  my  feet  to 
the  blazing  fire,  the  light  of  the  blaze  glancing  through 
the  dim  forest,  and  lighting  up  its  recesses,  and  filling 
them  with  fantastic  forms,  with  the  stars  gazing  down 
at  me  through  the  branches  of  the  great  trees,  I  lay  and 
slept,  while  that  dear  company  came  around  me,  and  I 
lived  over  again  that  scene,  the  happiest  scene  that  has 
ever  blessed  my  wandering,  useless  life. 

"  But  a  change  came,  and  the  sad  part  of  that  scene 
followed,  as  of  old,  the  glad  ;  and  when  it  was  all  over, 
and  I  was  alone — alone  in  the  desolate  old  house,  and 
the  last  dear  one  was  gone,  I  dreamed  that  I  was  sit 
ting  in  the  library,  and  that  a  wail  broke  on  the  still 
air  like  the  wail  of  a  lost  soul  that  looked  into  heaven, 
and  saw  its  own  loved  one  rejoicing  there ! 

"  I  sprang  to  my  feet  before  I  was  fairly  awako.  The 
same  wail  rang  in  my  waking  ears,  and  again  and  again, 
nearer  and  nearer,  until  I  shook  from  head  to  foot  with 


A    PANTHER.  259 

terror.  But  a  few  moments'  reflection  sufficed  to  nerve 
me,  and  I  now  recognized  the  unmistakable  cry  of  the 
panther.  He  was  yet  at  a  distance,  and  so  continued. 
A  thunder  shower  was  approaching,  and  the  lightning 
gleamed  through  the  forest  with  wild  but  beautiful  ef 
fect.  I  was  again  thoroughly  soaked,  but  the  fire  was 
kept  up,  and  I  dozed  away  the  remaining  part  of  the 
night  in  fitful  sleep. 

"  The  next  night  found  me  approaching  this  valley, 
but  it  was  dark  before  I  reached  it,  and,  much  as  I  had 
gotten  to  dread  it,  I  prepared  for  a  third  tiresome  sleep. 
But  this  time  I  found  a  deserted  log  hut,  and  gladly  en 
tered  it. 

"  I  filled  the  hearth  with  wood,  and  kindled  a  great 
fire,  and,  laying  myself  down  on  the  ground  floor,  slept 
gloriously.  It  could  not  have  been  far  from  midnight 
when  the  same  cry  awoke  me.  It  was  not  comfortable 
to  think  of  the  scoundrel  following  me  in  this  sort  of 
way,  but,  as  he  seemed  now  to  be  near,  I  determined 
to  end  this  business,  if  it  were  possible,  and0  looking  to 
my  rifle  and  knife,  I  listened  to  get  his  direction.  The 
next  cry  seemed  within  a  hundred  yards,  though  it  was 
probably  half  a  mile  away,  but  approaching.  I  ac 
cordingly  left  the  cabin,  and  the  door  stood  open  while 
I  concealed  myself  at  fifty  yards'  distance. 

"  I  had  not  waited  above  ten  minutes  when  I  saw  a 
dark  object  stealing  across  the  opening,  near  the  river 
bank. 

"  The  only  question  was  whether  he  would  find  me 
out  by  his  keen  scent,  or  whether,  as  I  hoped,  the  burn- 


260  LATER    YEARS. 

ed  meat  in  the  cabin  would  tempt  him  more,  or  spoil 
his  scent.  The  scoundrel  stole  cautiously  up  to  the  cab 
in  door,  and  entered.  Gtuick  as  thought,  I  was  behind 
him,  and  had  dashed  the  door  shut  before  I  thought  of 
the  sashless  window  by  its  side.  I  sprang  to  it,  and 
we  met  face  to  face.  He  was  springing  out  when  I 
gave  him  the  muzzle  of  the  rifle  and  its  contents.  But 
it  did  not  stop  him.  He  was  through  the  window  and 
on  me,  and  I  drew  my  knife  as  his  heavy  weight  knock 
ed  me  down,  and  we  rolled  over  together.  It  was  a 
fight  of  not  ten  seconds.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  I 
was  bleeding  in  a  dozen  places,  but  the  panther  was 
dead.  I  slept  soundly  that  night,  though  I  was  sore, 
and  the  teeth  and  claws  of  the  rascal  had  scratched  me 
somewhat.  But  the  wounds  were  not  deep,  and  next 
morning  I  was  here,  and  spent  the  next  night  in  that 
house  down  stream  yonder.  It  was  the  first  frame 
house  in  this  neighborhood.  Who  would  have  thought 
in  those  times  to  see  the  great  western  route  of  travel 
over  my  very  route  for  those  three  days !" 

Thus  ended  Joe  Willis's  story,  and  here  endeth  my 
letter. 


XXXIY. 

3  olio  Imitjr. 

August,  18 — . 

THE  day  had  been  a  dull  one  —  that  is  to  say,  the 
sky  had  been  dull  and  cloudy,  and  the  ground  wet, 
or  rather  watery,  while  the  rain  poured  in  torrents  from 
early  morning  to  late  sunset,  and  far  into  the  night. 
A  projected  visit  to  a  cavern  and  a  mountain,  a  mile  or 
two  up  stream,  was,  of  course,  vetoed,  but  we  are  never 
without  resources  for  a  rainy  day,  and  we  voted,  nem. 
con.,  that  the  day  was  pleasant,  delightful,  a  perfect 
treat ;  and,  accordingly,  we  made  merry  in  the  large 
parlor  until  dinner  time.  A  group  of  idle  villagers  and 
two  or  three  mountaineers  were  assembled  in  the  bar 
room,  and,  when  I  looked  in  at  eleven  o'clock,  they  ap 
peared  as  stupid  as  bar-room  groups  generally  do  in 
rainy  days,  trying  hard  to  be  amused  by  old  stories, 
told  for  the  tenth  time  over ;  but  an  hour  later,  hear 
ing  the  sounds  of  merriment  from  the  parlor,  one,  and 
another,  and  another  of  the  loungers  came  up  to  the 
door  of  the  large  parlor,  and,  with  eyes  wide  open,  look 
ed  in  on  the  amusements  of  the  strangers,  which  seem 
ed  to  them  as  novel  and  curious  as  the  presence  of 
strangers  would  naturally  be  in  this  valley,  hitherto  so 
inaccessible. 


2C)2  LATER    YEARS. 

I  was  standing  near  the  window,  looking  out  at  the 
rushing  river.  Dark,  wild,  and  furious  was  the  flow 
of  the  torrent  in  the  upper  part  of  the  basin,  and  the 
glassy  pool,  which  last  evening  reflected  the  mountains 
and  the  sky  so  clearly,  was  now  black  and  gloomy,  and 
flecked  with  yellow  foam.  One  of  the  ladies  of  our 
party,  standing  near  me,  was  laughing  at  a  remark  of 
Joe  Willis's,  while  a  group  of  three  or  four  were  dis 
cussing  the  preparation  of  some  tableaux  and  charades. 
At  the  moment,  some  person  called  out  to  me  for  a 
story,  to  kill  time  while  the  charades  were  in  process 
of  preparation,  and,  as  I  turned  to  reply  to  the  call,  I 
caught  sight  of  a  woodman  standing  outside  the  door, 
and  looking  in  on  the  group  with  open  countenance. 

He  was  a  tall,  gaunt  man,  at  least  six  feet  two  in 
height,  and  remarkably  slender.  He  was  leaning 
against  the  door-post,  and  his  feet  were  a  yard  from  it, 
so  that  he  leaned  like  a  rail  in  a  slanting  position,  his 
shoulder  against  the  casing,  as  if  he  meant  either  to 
hold  it  up  or  push  it  down.  His  long  neck  and  head 
were  inside  the  door,  and  his  stare  was  expressive  of 
vacant  wonderment,  and  nothing  else. 

But  there  was  life  in  his  blue  eye,  and  a  devil  lurk 
ing  there,  which  you  noticed  the  moment  you  saw  him. 

It  had  already  attracted  the  attention  of  Miss  , 

who  sat  alone  near  the  window,  looking  steadily  on  the 
strange  face  that  was  so  earnest  in  its  gaze. 

The  instant  I  saw  him  I  sprang  forward  :  "Why,  Joe 
— Joe  Willis — here  is  Smith.  Smith,  my  dear  fellow, 
where  did  you  come  from  ?  I  thought  you  were  under 
ground  ten  years  ago  !" 


JOSHUA    SMITH.  263 

"Not  so  bad  as  that,  sir — glad  to  see  you,  though. 
How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  Glad  enough  to  see  you,  'pon  my 
word,  sir.  I  declare,  Mr.  Phillips,  if  I'd  ha'  known  you 
was  up  here,  I'd  ha'  been  up  last  night.  Q/ueer  times 
here  nowadays.  "Who's  all  these  folks  ?" 

"  Friends  of  mine,  Smith  ;  come  in,  and  I'll  introduce 
you." 

"  Guess  I  may  as  well — queer,  too — han't  spoke  to  a 
woman  since  I  was  a  boy  ;  but  here  goes.  Trot  'em 
out,  now." 

And  my  old  friend  stalked  into  the  parlor  with  an 
unstudied  carelessness  that  would  have  made  his  for 
tune  in  a  city  assembly-room. 

"  Ladies,  my  old  friend,  Joshua  Smith — I  beg  to  pre 
sent  him  to  your  favorable  notice.  He  used  to  be  the 
best  shot  on  the  river,  the  keenest  hunter,  the  best- 
souled  fellow,  and  the  truest  friend.  I  think  I  am  safe 
in  answering  for  him  now  as  unchanged." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Phillips,  you  are  presenting  a  perfect 

treasure,"  exclaimed  Miss ,  running  up  and  seizing 

Joshua's  hand  kindly  and  cordially.  But  Joshua  shook 
all  over  as  the  beautiful  girl  took  his  hand,  and,  blush 
ing  from  his  toes  to  his  crown,  a  regular  six-foot  blush, 

backed  fairly  out  of  the  door.  But  Miss was  not 

to  be  beaten  in  that  way,  and,  by  dint  of  bright  eyes 
and  winning  ways,  she  coaxed  him  into  a  corner,  and, 
while  the  rest  relapsed  into  their  former  employments, 
she  engaged  him  in  conversation.  Ten  minutes  might 
have  passed,  when  a  lull  occurred,  and  Joe  Willis  took 
advantage  of  it  to  lift  his  hand  and  impose  silence, 


264  LATER    YEARS. 

while  he  pointed  toward  the  corner  where  Joshua  sat, 
with  his  back  to  us,  talking  at  the  black  eyes  of  his 
captor.  So  we  listened. 

"  And  you  see,  miss,  I  wa'n't  going  to  be  fooled,  no 
how"  (this  was  the  first  sentence  we  caught),  "  and  so 
I  crawled  along  the  stream  to  where  you  see  the  tall 
hemlock  that  leans  over  the  river.  Just  there  I  had 
seen  a  motion  in  the  bushes,  and  I  kind  o'  thought  that 
a  painter  was  in  there,  but  I  wa'n't  sure.  I  sneaked 
up  among  the  bush,  and  looked  into  the  cover,  but  I 
couldn't  see  nothing,  so  I  laid  down  flat,  and  dragged 
myself,  snake  fashion,  into  the  hollow  over  the  other 
side  there.  You  can  see  a  maple  just  above  it,  out 
there.  "Well,  I  hadn't  gone  ten  yards,  when  I  heerd  a 
kind  of  a  snarl  and  a  kind  of  a  yowl,  and  there  we  was 
— a  gray  wolf,  one  of  the  regular  sort,  with  a  young  one 
alongside  of  her.  "Wasn't  I  skeered  ?  I  reckon  I  was, 
some.  I  was  skeered  all  over  ;  but  was  worse  in  my 
legs  than  any  where  else,  for  they  was  caught  in  a 
bunch  of  briers,  and  I  couldn't  stir  'em  without  scratch 
ing  horrid  bad.  But  it  was  scratch  head  or  scratch  legs 
then,  I  tell  you  ;  and  I  left  my  trowser-legs  in  the  bush 
es  when  I  jumped  at  her.  She  was  a  little  too  soon 
for  me,  though,  and  I  felt  her  teeth  going  through  and 
through  the  gristle  about  my  elbow ;  so,  as  you  may 
suppose,  I  had  only  one  arm  left  for  much  use,  but  I 
was  working  thundering  hard  with  that.  I'd  dropped 
my  rifle  at  the  start,  and  I  had  to  trust  to  the  knife  or 
nothing.  So  we  went  at  it.  I  don't  know  how  I  man 
aged  the  next  two  minutes.  We  rolled  over  and  over 


JOSHUA    SMITH.  265 

on  the  ground,  and  I  never  felt  the  touch  of  her  teeth, 
though  her  claws  made  some  rags  out  of  my  coat.  But 
I  was  nigh  giving  on  it  up,  and  as  it  wa'n't  no  use  to 
cry  enough,  I  was  thinking  of  knocking  under  and  let 
ting  her  chaw  me,  when  Mr.  "Willis  and  Mr.  Phillips 
come  tearing  down  through  the  brush,  and  I  felt  strong 
again  the  minute  I  seen  them.  It  was  a  mighty  close 
shot,  too,  for  I  felt  the  wind  of  the  ball.  I  was  lying 
on  this  side,  stretched  out  kind  o'  so  (and  he  illustrated 
here  by  a  queer  twist  of  his  long  body),  and  I  had  the 
wolf  by  the  throat  with  my  right  hand,  and  I  was  try 
ing  to  get  on  to  her  with  my  body,  but  she  was  pulling 
and  hauling  like  sin,  and  making  the  feathers  fly  out  of 
me  at  every  scratch,  when  Mr.  Phillips  shot  right  over 
my  head.  You  see  he  wa'n't  more'n  ten  yards  off,  but 
it  was  such  a  rough  and  tumble  fight  that  he  hadn't  no 
business  risking  such  a  shot  as  that.  What  if  he'd  a  hit 
me  then?  'Twould  ha'blowed  my  brains  out  certain." 

"  But,  Mr.  Smith,  if  he  had  not  shot  the  wolf,  the  wolf 
would  have  '  chawed'  you." 

"  Chawed  ?  That  sounds  kind  o'  queer.  Don't  know 
as  I  ever  heerd  a  woman  say  '  chaw'  before.  No, 
ma'am ;  for  he  didn't  hit  the  wolf  at  all.  The  bullet 
went  into  the  ground  ten  foot  off.  'Twa'ii't  the  thing, 
that  shot,  no  how." 

"  Yes,  but  it  was,  though,  Joshua,  for  it  scared  you 
and  the  wolf  ten  feet  apart  from  each  other  in  the  next 
second." 

"  Oh,  you're  a  listening,  are  you  ?  Well,  listeners  don't 
hear  no  good  of  themselves.  Scare  me  and  the  wolf! 
M 


266  LATER    YEARS. 

Didn't  scare  neither  of  us.     Too  good  pluck  in  us.    "We 
only  backed  off  for  breath  and  another  round." 

"  Likely  story  !  Perhaps  you  recollect  your  left  arm 
was  in  a  bad  fix,  and  I  think  the  wolf  knew  it,  by  the 
way  she  licked  her  lips,  and  worked  at  you  for  about 
ten  seconds ;  and  your  knife,  old  fellow — how  happen 
ed  your  knife  down  in  the  hollow,  two  rods  off?" 

"  I'd  throw'd  the  knife  away  for  a  fair  fight — yes,  I 
had.  My  blood  was  up,  and  I  was — " 

"  Come,  come,  Joshua,  my  boy,  if  the  next  ball  had 
not  bothered  the  wolf,  and  Joe  Willis's  knife  and  good 
stout  arm  taken  the  fight  off  your  hands,  I'd  like  to 
know  what  chance  you  think  there  would  have  been 
that  you  would  bless  your  eyes  to-day  with  looking  at 
that  face  of  Miss ,  eh,  Joshua  ?" 

"  Wall,"  said  Joshua,  stretching  his  long  legs  till  his 
heels,  buried  in  the  carpet,  seemed  halfway  across  the 
room,  and  looking  around  at  me  with  a  quizzical  ex 
pression,  "  wall,  I  don't  know.  Some  things  are  bless 
ings  to  some  folks  that  ain't  blessings  to  others." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Smith !"  exclaimed  the  lady. 

"  No  offense,  ma'am.  It  does  me  good  to  look  at  you  : 
I  hain't  seen  sich  sence — sence — Do  you  know,  HOW,  I 
had  my  bringing  up  down  East  ?  I  only  came  out  here 
when  I  was  about  two  thirds  growed.  It  is  pleasant, 
anyhow,  to  see  you." 

"  But  the  wolf,  Mr.  Smith  ?" 

"  Ask  Mr.  Phillips ;  he's  took  the  story  out  of  my 
mouth ;"  and  Joshua  was  unapproachable  after  that, 
listening,  but  silent.  So  I  finished  his  history. 


JOSHUA    SMITH.  267 

"  Willis  and  myself  were  just  in  time.  Smith  was 
fighting  well,  but  the  wolf  had  hurt  his  arm,  and,  in  his 
eagerness  for  a  choking  grasp,  he  had  forgotten  to  hold 
his  knife,  dropped  it,  and  they  had  rolled  far  out  of 
reach  of  it.  I  think  half  a  second  would  have  settled 
Joshua ;  so  I  shot,  intending  only  to  frighten  the  wolf 
from  the  deliberate  mouthful  on  Joshua's  shoulder 
which  seemed  inevitable,  and  it  effected  the  purpose. 
They  separated  for  an  instant,  and  I  gave  her  the  sec 
ond  ball  inside  the  shoulder,  hoping  to  reach  the  heart. 
It  was  a  little  out  of  the  way — too  close  for  good  aim  ; 
but  the  ball  did  service,  and  disabled  one  leg.  Then 
Willis  was  on  her  with  his  knife  before  she  had  recov 
ered  from  the  stunning  effect  of  the  bullet,  and  Joe  had 
always  a  knack  of  putting  a  knife  in  the  right  place. 

"  Joshua  didn't  use  his  left  arm  for  a  week  or  two 
after  that.  How  long  was  it,  Joshua?" 

"  Six  months,"  grunted  Smith. 

The  attentive  group  of  listeners  were  scattered  at 
this  instant  by  the  dinner-bell,  and,  insisting  on  Josh 
ua's  company,  we  made  merry  till  twilight  over  the 
table. 

The  clouds  were  broken  and  heavy  before  dark,  but 
only  to  indicate  a  furious  wind  among  them.  In  the 
night  we  heard  it,  roaring  along  the  mountain  sides, 
wailing  down  the  ravine,  and  among  the  pines  and  hem 
locks,  and  shaking  the  very  foundations  of  the  house. 
But  we  slept  gloriously,  for  all  that ;  and  I  confess  that, 
to  myself,  it  sounded  as  I  have  seldom  heard  wind 
sound,  like  the  familiar  voices  of  other  and  freer  days, 


268  LATER    YEARS. 

and  I  could  shut  my  eyes  and  imagine  the  years  gono 
back  on  the  track  of  time ;  I  heard  the  same  tempest 
in  the  same  ravine,  with  the  same  trees  talking  to  the 
wind,  as  in  the  olden  time  ;  but  the  long,  shrill  whis 
tle  of  the  express  train  coming  up  the  valley  woke  me 
from  my  revery,  and  I  knew  that  a  mattress  was  not  a 
bearskin,  and  white  plaster  and  dimity  hangings  were 
not  the  cabin  logs  and  the  trophies  of  the  chase  that 
used  to  adorn  them  in  the  cabin  of  Joshua  Smith,  the 
only  house  in  the  valley  in  the  days  when  we  knew  it 
first. 

But  it  is  a  glorious  valley  yet,  as  you  will  say  when 
I  tempt  you  to  come  up  here. 


XXXV. 


Susquehanna,  August,  18  —  . 

THE  valley  of  the  Delaware  and  that  of  the  Susque 
hanna  abound  in  material  for  poetry  and  romance, 
and  in  stirring  traditions  of  old  times.  The  favorite 
haunts  of  powerful  tribes  of  Indians,  they  were  the 
scenes  of  many  events,  unrecorded  by  the  hand  of  man, 
unwritten  in  books,  unknown  to  song,  but  some  of 
which  live  in  the  fireside  stories  of  old  settlers  or  the 
cabin  tales  of  hunters. 

Not  unfrequently  we  have  listened  to  such  histories 
as  the  rude  taste  of  the  forester  had  preserved  for  repe 
tition,  out  of  the  many  that  he  had  heard,  when  the  long 
day's  hunt  was  over,  and  we  sat  at  evening  by  blazing 
piles  of  logs,  or  by  the  broad  hearth  of  the  log  hut. 

They  were  a  lordly  race,  and  I  love  their  memories. 
I  would  fain  preserve  many  of  these  traditions  for  fu 
ture  times  to  admire,  but  I  am  powerless.  Would  that 
some  pen  might  be  found  worthy  and  skillful  to  record 
the  stories  of  the  red  man's  life,  love,  struggles,  victo 
ries,  defeats,  and  death.  We  are  apt  to  remember  them 
only  as  savages,  and  to  class  them  in  our  thoughts  with 
the  wild  beasts  that  inhabited  our  forests,  instead  of 
regarding  them  as  living,  loving  men  and  women,  of 


270  LATER    YEARS. 

like  passions  with  ourselves,  who  were  born,  struggled 
and  perished  even  as  we,  and  who  alike  suffered  such 
trials,  such  pains,  and  such  despairs,  and  enjoyed  such 
affections,  hopes,  and  joys  as  have  we. 

The  presence  of  the  red  man's  grave  invests  any  soil 
with  deep  interest  to  my  mind,  and  the  fact  that  he 
lived  in  these  forests  adds  tenfold  to  the  pleasure  with 
which  I  pass  through  them. 

About  fifteen  miles  from  this  place,  among  the  hills 
to  the  southeast,  is  a  deep  valley,  or  rather  a  basin,  sur 
rounded  by  loftly  and  abrupt  mountains.  The  place  is 
a  curious  one,  and  should  you,  in  hunting,  come  out  on 
one  of  the  summits  of  the  inclosing  hills  on  the  north 
or  west  (for  you  would  never  approach  it  except  on 
foot,  and  on  some  such  expedition*),  you  would  suppose 
it  to  be  almost  inaccessible,  so  steep  are  the  hill  sides, 
and  so  abrupt  the  rocky  precipices,  which  appear  to 
succeed  one  another  like  a  series  of  lofty  steps.  But 
there  are  two  or  three  ways  of  descending  to  it,  and,  on 
reaching  the  bottom,  you  find  that  there  is  an  opening 
to  the  southeast — a  gorge  in  the  hills,  through  which 
pours  a  stream,  the  outlet  of  a  deep  pool  that  is  in  the 
centre  of  the  basin.  This  pool  is  of  remarkably  clear 
water,  and  near  the  edges  you  may  see  the  sandy  bot 
tom  very  clearly ;  but  in  the  inside  it  is  dark,  and  said 
to  be  fathomless.  It  is  "  said  to  be."  The  authority 
is  like  that  for  very  many  other  things  which  we  re 
peat  with  an  on  dit.  There  was  never  a  boat  on  the 
pond,  and  I  doubt  whether  any  one  ever  attempted  to 
fathom  the  depth.  But  the  first  time  I  saw  it  I  was 


THE    RED    MEN.  271 

with.  Joshua  Smith,  and  he  sat  down  on  a  log,  and  told 
me,  in  his  queer,  quaint  way,  the  story  which  I  am 
about  to  repeat  to  you.  The  authority  for  it  is  tradi 
tion.  Joshua  heard  it  when  he  was  a  boy  from  Billy 
Steenson,  who  died  of  the  bite  of  a  rattlesnake  forty 
years  ago.  "Where  Billy  had  heard  it  no  one  knows, 
except  by  his  own  story,  which  was,  that  the  Indians 
used  to  talk  about  it  often,  and  that  he  was  present  at 
some  of  their  ceremonials  in  memory  of  it.  But  for 
the  story. 

It  was  in  the  olden  time — in  the  days  long  gone.  The 
centuries  that  have  passed  since  then  are  marked  by 
the  lordly  Delaware  in  lines  on  its  rocky  banks,  or  by 
the  circles  in  the  forest  oaks,  but  nowhere  else.  In 
those  same  centuries  men  were  fighting  for  the  mastery 
in  Europe,  the  fires  of  the  Reformation  were  lighting 
the  hills  of  Germany  and  England,  successive  dynasties 
were  placed  on  and  hurled  from  old  thrones,  the  Rhine, 
and  the  Danube,  and  the  Tiber  were  rolling  along  their 
rich  and  peopled  shores,  and  the  deep  sea  was  between 
the  civilized  world  and  the  American  red  man.  Once, 
indeed,  a  few  lonesome  ships  had  drifted  across  the 
world,  and  made  communication  between  those  who 
had  been  separated  for  thousands  of  years.  But  the 
tribes  that  thronged  the  country  from  the  Mohegan  to 
the  great  lakes  knew  nothing  of  all  this,  and  to  them 
the  succession  of  day  and  night,  summer  and  winter, 
peace  and  war,  life  and  death,  was  unrecorded,  except 
in  the  recollections  of  men.  It  was  when  the  war-cry 
of  the  Crusaders  was  floating  over  the  walls  of  Jerusa- 


272  LATER    YEARS. 

lem,  or  when  Luther  was  thundering  his  denunciations  in 
the  ears  of  his  startled  hearers,  or  when  Anne  Boleyn 
was  dying,  or  when — but  what  matters  the  date  ?  It 
was  long  ago,  and  that  is  date  of  a  tradition  sufficiently 
accurate. 

The  Indians  in  this  neighborhood  were  a  race  of 
warriors,  and  had  pressed  their  way  hither  from  East 
ern  countries.  Possibly  they  were  near  relatives  of  the 
Pequots  or  the  Narragansets  ;  but,  having  earned  their 
title  to  the  soil  by  hard  battles,  they  were  left  to  keep 
it  by  force  of  arms,  and  their  plantations  on  the  banks 
of  the  Susquehanna  were  the  scene  of  many  frays,  brief 
but  terrible.  At  length,  the  Western  nations  united  to 
force  back  the  invaders  who  had  held  the  soil  for  so 
long  a  period  of  usurpation,  and  advanced  with  thou 
sands  of  fighting  men  toward  the  narrow  neck  which 
separates  the  Susquehanna  from  the  Delaware.  Here, 
among  the  mountain  fastnesses,  that  afford  ample  re 
treat  or  defense  to  armies  of  millions,  the  invaders,  fore 
warned  and  forearmed,  were  awaiting  the  enemy. 

There  was  no  march  of  armies,  no  trampling  of  war- 
horses,  nor  any  sound  that  might  have  told  of  the  pres 
ence  and  advance  of  an  army  of  men.  They  passed 
like  ghosts  through  the  forest  pathways,  and  glided, 
spectre-like,  from  cover  to  cover,  from  glen  to  glen,  now 
climbing,  with  cat-like  rapidity,  the  sides  of  some  lofty 
mountain,  now  threading,  with  unerring  speed,  the 
mazes  of  some  dense  forest.  The  one  who  saw  them 
from  some  point  of  bird's-eye  vision  might  have  been 
pardoned  for  mistaking  them  for  an  "  army  of  phantoms." 


THE    RED    MEN.  273 

But  the  wolves  that  were  following  on  their  track  were 
no  ghosts.  Their  long,  gray  forms,  their  fierce  and 
angry  voices,  their  eager  impetuosity,  all  evinced  that 
they  knew  the  reality  of  the  army  they  followed,  and 
were  accustomed  to  be  led  by  them  to  feast  on  the  valiant. 

Night  came  down,  with  the  glory  of  all  the  stars,  on 
the  Susquehanna  and  the  Sterucca.  Again  I  must 
pause  to  think  of  those  immutable  watchers,  and  to  re 
flect  on  the  scenes  they  have  witnessed. 

That  same  silver-eyed  star  that  looks  into  my  win 
dow  at  this  moment  beheld  the  scene  I  am  now  de 
scribing  with  the  same  calm  smile.  What  witness- 
bearers,  in  the  day  of  reckoning,  will  they  be  ! 

On  the  east  bank  of  the  Sterucca,  near  the  Hemlock 
Brook,  the  invaders  were  stationed,  and  lay  waiting  the 
battle.  At  length  it  came.  It  was  a  night  attack, 
fierce,  furious,  and  bloody,  and  the  forest  rang  to  the 
yells  of  the  mad  combatants.  Here  a  heavy  blow  sent 
down  a  stout  old  man ;  there  a  swift  arrow  pierced  a 
young  man's  heart.  Here  the  exulting  war-cry  rang 
out  in  a  clear,  triumphant  tone ;  there  it  bubbled  out 
in  an  agony  of  blood.  Here,  hand  to  hand,  a  hundred 
fought  a  thousand  ;  and  there,  in  the  deep  recesses  of 
the  forest,  single  couples  clinched  each  other  in  furious 
battle.  Now  the  silence  was  fearful,  broken  only  by 
the  crushing  blow  of  a  hatchet  penetrating  a  cloven 
skull,  or  the  dull,  heavy  fall  of  a  dead  man  to  the 
ground ;  and  now  the  shrieks  and  yells  that  filled  the 
night  air  were  like  the  cries  of  the  damned  in  some  in 
fernal  torture. 


274  LATER    YEARS. 

Slowly  the  battle  wore  on  and  changed  place.  Mile 
after  mile,  in  the  long  night,  the  invaders  retreated,  con 
testing  every  hill  and  valley,  but  hard  pressed  by  an 
overwhelming  force,  until  they  reached  the  brow  of  the 
hill  on  the  west  side  of  the  basin  that  I  have  described, 
and  here  they  lit  the  signal  fires  that  were  prepared  to 
announce  defeat,  and  provide  succor  and  re-enforce 
ment.  From  hill  to  hill,  from  mountain  to  mountain, 
the  beacons  flashed,  until,  on  the  distant  banks  of  the 
Mohegan,  long  ere  the  daybreak,  the  story  of  defeat 
was  read  in  the  blaze  of  the  signal  fires. 

But  succor  came  too  late.  The  vengeance  of  the  red 
man  might  at  times  be  tardy,  but  was  always  sure  ; 
and  when  the  morning  sun  shone  on  the  smoke  of  the 
beacon  that  told  the  sad  story  to  the  watchers  in  the 
glen,  a  handful  of  strong  men,  step  by  step,  were  fight 
ing  their  retreat  into  the  valley  where  the  women  and 
children  were  ready  for  flight.  But  the  hour  of  mercy 
was  past,  and  when  at  length  the  scanty  few  entered 
the  inclosure  where  the  defenseless  families  were  wait 
ing  them,  a  thousand  foes,  tenfold  more  fierce  and  blood 
thirsty  than  the  wolves  that  were  on  their  track,  enter 
ed  with  them,  and  a  wail  of  despair  arose  to  heaven 
that  might  almost  have  moved  an  army  of  angels  to 
the  rescue. 

Matron  nor  maid,  boyhood  nor  blooming  girlhood, 
youth,  beauty,  innocence,  naught  might  escape,  and  one 
by  one  they  were  hewn  down  like  sheep,  and  as  each 
fell,  one  wail  less  was  heard,  and  one  less,  and  so  it 
«rrew  to  be  more  silent  till  the  sobbing  death-moans  of 


THE    RED    MEX.  275 

a  mother,  clasping  her  dead  boy  to  her  cloven  breast 
(that  holiest  tie  to  life  that  is  always  the  last  to  part), 
was  the  only  sound  that  disturbed  the  air,  and  the  sun 
shine  fell  calmly  and  peacefully  on  the  repose  of  the 
slain. 

Then  followed  the  exulting  feast  of  the  victors,  and 
all  day  long  they  published  to  the  forest  and  the  sun 
light  their  joy  and  triumph,  and  the  dead  lay  unheeded 
in  the  places  where  they  had  fallen.  But  when  the 
twilight  came  down  on  the  mountain  country,  and  the 
feast  was  ended,  a  small  cloud  appeared  in  the  west, 
rising  above  the  lofty  hills.  It  gathered  blackness,  and 
advanced  solemnly,  steadily,  until  it  assumed  an  ap 
pearance  that  awed  even  the  men  accustomed  to  the 
thunder  of  these  mountains.  They  gathered  in  a  dense 
group  in  the  centre  of  the  captured  village,  and  waited 
the  approach  of  the  tempest  in  hesitating  silence. 

And  now  a  prodigy  occurred — a  frightful  scene  ;  for 
a  young  maiden,  a  tall  and  queenly  girl,  who  lay,  all 
day,  dead  across  the  door-way  of  the  royal  lodge,  rose 
from  the  ground.  Her  face  was  strangely  pale,  and 
the  blood  from  her  torn  head  ran  down  among  her  long 
black  locks  and  across  her  features.  But  there  was  a 
wild,  strange  beauty  and  majesty  in  her  look,  as  she 
stalked  into  the  centre  of  the  awe-struck  victors,  and 
spoke  in  a  clear  voice,  piercing,  but  musical.  She 
cursed  them  with  the  curses  of  the  good  and  evil  spirit, 
with  all  the  maledictions  of  an  obliterated  tribe,  and  all 
the  hatred  of  a  conquered  race.  She  cursed  them  in 
the  forest  and  in  the  village,  in  their  children  and  their 


276  LATER    YEARS. 

brethren,  their  homes  and  hunting-grounds,  and  even  in 
their  graves ;  and  when  she  had  ended,  she  lay  down 
dead  on  the  greensward,  pale,  calm,  but  beautiful,  and 
the  tempest  burst  upon  them. 

There  was  no  storm  like  that,  before  or  since,  among 
those  mountains.  The  lightning  flashes  fell  among 
them,  making  terrible  havoc,  and  the  torrents  which 
poured  down  the  mountain  sides  filled  up  the  valley, 
and  drowned  them  as  they  struggled  to  fly.  Out  of 
more  than  a  thousand  men,  less  than  a  hundred  es 
caped,  and  the  remainder  lay  in  the  deep  lake  that  fill 
ed  the  hollow. 

Next  day  the  lake  burst  the  eastern  barrier,  and 
wore  its  own  passage  down  toward  the  Delaware,  and 
after  a  few  weeks  the  hollow  was  dry,  with  only  the 
deep  pool  in  its  centre.  Long  after  that,  even  to  these 
later  years,  the  ghostly  forms  of  the  slayers  and  the 
slain  might  be  seen  flitting  about  the  edges  of  the  pool 
in  the  moonlight. 

Far  down  in  its  unfathomed  depths,  in  adamantine 
sarcophagi,  the  bodies  of  the  victors  in  that  battle  are 
preserved,  and  they  are  thus  forever  shut  out  of  the 
blessed  grounds.  But  the  maiden  that  cursed  them  is 
a  queen  in  the  land  of  her  present  abiding,  and  a  crown 
of  diamonds  conceals  the  wounds  on  her  queenly  head. 

The  legend  is  written ;  would  that  it  and  all  similar 
traditions  of  our  predecessors  here  might  have  a  better 
preservation. 


XXXVI 

H  a  i  I  -  r  u  E  i  11  a  m  a  u  1 1. 

August,  18 — . 

"VTESTERDAY  we  met  friends  who  had  been  travel- 
JL  ing  on  other  routes,  so  that  our  party  formed  quite 
a  large  group  in  the  rear  of  the  car,  and  when  the  in 
terest  in  the  scenery  began  to  flag,  we  killed  time  by 
exchanging  stories,  as  you  well  know  our  wont  has  been 
hitherto.  But  the  best  story  of  the  day,  by  far,  was 

that  of  B ,  who  vouches  for  its  authenticity,  and  the 

truthfulness  of  the  incidents.  It  occurred  within  two 
hundred  miles  of  Albany,  on  one  of  the  greatest  rail 
road  routes,  and  I  may  safely  assure  you  of  its  credibil 
ity.  I  can  best  relate  the  story  in  the  words  of  my 
friend,  as  follows : 

"  I  was  tired,  half  sick,  and  wanting  something  to 
arouse  me.  The  ride  had  been  tedious,  and  I  was  ready 
for  any  change,  when  the  cars  entered  that  beautiful 

valley  on  the  banks  of  the  M ,  where  a  mountain 

gorge  opens  out  suddenly  on  the  plain  near  the  station. 

"  I  had  studied  all  the  passengers,  and  found  none  to 
interest  me.  A  group  of  children,  surrounding  their 
mother  in  the  next  seats  to  me,  had  attracted  the  chief 
part  of  my  notice,  and  I  had  sought  to  trace  in  the  moth 
er's  face  some  indication  of  her  character  and  thoughts, 


278  LATER    YEARS. 

but  in  vain.  She  was  a  fine-looking  person,  of  forty  or 
forty-five,  matronly  and  dignified,  "but  with  all  the  air 
of  the  city,  and  that  expressionless  look,  void  of  inter 
est  and  uninterested  in  any  passing  object,  which  char 
acterizes  the  fashionable  traveler.  Occasionally  she 
dipped  into  the  pages  of  a  novel ;  sometimes  drew  out 
a  diamond-studded  watch  of  most  minute  proportions  ; 
now  looked  at  the  mountains,  and  now  at  the  seats  in 
the  cars,  and  now  at  the  faces  of  the  children,  but  al 
ways  with  the  cold,  expressionless  gaze  of  the  '  high 
bred  lady.'  I  had  given  her  up  for  quite  as  unworth 
regarding  as  most  of  her  class  are  usually,  and  had  con 
cluded  to  look  outside  the  car  for  amusement,  when  we 
brought  up  with  a  plunge  and  a  jerk  at  the  little  sta 
tion  of for  wood  and  water.  "Within  a  hundred 

feet  of  us  the  mountain  gorge  opened,  and  the  sun 
shine  stole  down  it  with  strange  beauty.  At  this  in 
stant,  a  man  approached  the  window  at  which  I  sat, 
offering  to  sell  fruit  from  his  basket. 

"  He  was  a  tall  man,  with  flowing  hair  and  beard, 
originally  jet  black,  but  now  streaked  a  very  little  with 
gray.  His  face  was  magnificent.  I  would  have  gone 
miles  to  look  on  such  a  countenance.  His  forehead 
was  high,  broad,  and  white.  A  strange  calm,  even 
majestic,  seemed  to  rest  on  it,  and  to  rule  his  appear 
ance.  His  eye  was  dark,  keen,  but  not  roving  or  rest 
less.  It  appeared  to  repose  wherever  it  fell.  His  lips 
were  carved  with  exceeding  beauty  and  sweetness, 
and  his  complexion  was  unrivaled  for  whiteness.  His 
beard,  as  I  said,  was  long,  flowing,  and  elegant,  and 


RAIL-ROAD    ROMANCE.  279 

dark,  but  now  changing  here  and  there,  as  a  long  white 
hair  was  seen  gleaming  among  the  masses  of  black. 
You  have  seen  such  faces  in  old  paintings.  I  remem 
ber  one  like  it,  that  I  can  not  now  locate,  but  you  may 
recognize  it  by  my  description. 

"  It  was  strange  to  see  such  a  man  engaged  in  such 
a  humble  employment,  and  I  bought  a  dozen  articles  in 
succession,  to  keep  him  before  me  while  I  looked  at 
him.  At  length,  the  lady  I  have  mentioned  beckoned 
him  toward  the  window  where  she  sat,  and  he  left  me, 
but  I  followed  him  with  my  eyes.  As  he  approached 
her  he  lifted  his  basket,  and  she  examined  the  fruit,  but 
I  saw  a  strange  expression  coming  over  his  counte 
nance.  He  gazed  with  unspeakable  earnestness  into 
her  eyes,  and  at  length  I  knew  by  his  look  that  the 
gaze  was  returned,  and  I  looked  at  her.  A  deep  crim 
son  was  flushing  over  her  face,  the  first  sign  of  feeling 
I  had  yet  seen  on  it.  For  a  long  while  that  gaze 
continued,  he  looking  calmly,  sadly,  with  unutterable 
mournfulness  on  her  now  lustrous  eyes,  and  then  he 
spoke  qne  single  word,  but  in  a  voice  of  deep  emotion, 
'  Mary !'  and  let  his  basket  fall,  the  ripe  fruit  rolling 
along  the  platform  and  under  the  wheels  of  the  cars, 
and,  bowing  his  head  low  down,  he  turned  away,  and 
stalked  up  the  gorge  of  the  mountain.  He  did  not  once 
look  back,  nor  turn,  nor  hesitate,  but  pursued  his  way 
with  a  swift,  steady  pace  up  the  ravine,  and  disppear- 
ed  among  the  trees  that  overhung  the  stream. 

"  Here  was  an  incident  worth  tracing  out.  It  was 
none  of  my  business,  to  be  sure,  but  what  was  I  travel- 


280  LATER    YEARS. 

iug  for,  it'  I  was  only  to  attend  to  my  own  business.  I 
had  left  my  office  for  the  sake  of  getting  rid  of  my 
business,  and  having  a  finger  in  any  that  would  amuse 
me,  without  giving  me  care  or  responsibility. 

"  I  sprang  from  my  seat  as  the  engine  whistled.  The 
baggage  was  checked,  and  would  take  care  of  itself.  I 
was  alone.  So,  as  the  cars  dashed  westward  out  of 
the  valley,  I  was  already  following  the  footsteps  of  the 
stranger  up  the  gorge,  which  was  so  narrow  that  I  knew 
there  was  no  danger  of  missing  him. 

"  My  determination  was  so  sudden  that  I  had  form 
ed  no  plan  of  action,  only  resolving  to  know  more  of 
this  curious  incident,  and  the  actors  in  it.  At  length 
I  emerged  from  the  wood  road  in  a  little  open  spot, 
surrounded  by  hills,  with  a  beautiful  southern  exposure, 
which  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  small  Eden.  It  was  filled 
with  fruit-trees,  and  a  luxuriant  garden,  and  all  the 
beauties  and  delicacies  of  a  tasteful  cottage  home.  A 
small  hut  stood  under  the  shadow  of  a  few  lofty  trees, 
with  a  bubbling  spring  in  the  midst  of  the  green  grass 
before  the  door.  The  sky  seemed  to  love  that  little 
spot,  and  bent  over  it  all  around,  and  very  near  to  it. 
The  sun  never  penetrated  those  shades  in  summer,  and 
the  hills  kept  off  the  winds  in  winter.  I  paused  to  ad 
mire  the  beauty  of  the  scene  a  moment,  and  then 
knocked  at  the  door.  A  clear,  distinct  voice  bade  me 
enter,  and  I  obeyed. 

"  Seated  in  a  large  chair,  with  his  elbow  resting  on  a 
rude  table,  and  his  eyes  shaded  by  his  hand,  sat  the 
straniro  fruit-dealer.  Tho  furniture  was  rude,  but  elc- 


RAIL-ROAD    ROMANCE.  281 

gant  in  its  rudeness.  The  walls  were  ornamented  with 
paintings  of  startling  force  and  beauty.  I  was  sur 
prised,  and,  I  confess  it,  embarrassed,  but  I  was  in  for 
a  story,  and  I  sat  down  with  some  trifling  phrase  of 
civility.  A  few  words  sufficed  to  explain  that  I  was  a 
traveler,  hunting  scenery,  accidentally  led  to  that  spot. 
But  it  was  no  go.  He  remembered  me,  and  in  five 
minutes  he  made  me  confess  the  truth,  that  I  had  seen 
the  rail-road  incident,  and  wanted  an  explanation. 

"  « Well,  I  like  that,'  said  he.  'It  was  cool  and  bold  ; 
and  I  have  not  gotten  over  my  love  for  adventure  yet, 
though  I  am  growing  old,  and  am  a  hermit,  and  am 
called  a  fool.  You  have  made  a  bold  push  for  a  story, 
and  you  shall  have  it.  But  sit  down  and  eat  first,  for 
it  is  dinner-time  hereabouts.' 

"  In  five  minutes  we  were  at  a  table  covered  with 
fruits,  bread,  and  milk  in  abundance,  and  we  dined 
heartily.  "When  we  had  finished,  and  he  had  made  me 
light  my  cigar,  he  rose,  crossed  the  room  to  a  large 
chest,  and  took  out  from  it  a  large-sized  miniature-case, 
or  perhaps  I  should  call  it  a  small-sized  cabinet  picture. 
Placing  it  before  me  so  that  the  light  of  the  single  win 
dow  at  my  back  fell  on  it  with  a  beautiful  effect,  he 
bade  me  look  well  at  it  before  he  commenced  his  story. 
It  was  the  portrait  of  a  young  and  beautiful  woman,  of 
noble  appearance.  It  might  have  been  a  painter's  fancy 
of  Helen,  for  she  wore  no  dress  of  modern  times.  I 
was  struck  with  the  eyes,  they  were  so  full  of  life,  and 
frolic,  and  gayety.  After  I  had  looked  my  fill,  he  re 
stored  it  to  its  place. 


282  LATER  YEARS. 

"  *  I  loved  her,  and  I  lost  her — that  is  my  story,  briefly 
and  fully — the  old  story.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a 
wealthy  house,  I  the  poor  artist.  Month  after  month, 
year  after  year,  I  had  grown  rich  in  the  outpouring 
sunshine  of  her  eyes.  I  was  admitted,  favored,  petted  ; 
and  was  it  strange  that  I  was  fool  enough  to  believe  I 
was  loved?  There  were  times  when  I  had  reason  to 
think  so.  But  I  will  not  blame  her — I  never  have 
blamed  her.  She  was  good,  noble,  beautiful ;  but  she 
was  in,  and  she  was  of,  the  world,  and  schooled  in  all 
its  lessons  of  what  was  proper  and  what  was  most  de 
sirable.  It  was  not  her  fault  that  they  made  her  soul 
so  cold  in  a  body  so  fitted  to  be  loved.  It  was  once 
different.  In  gay  childhood,  nay,  in  later  years,  she 
had  a  wealth  of  pure,  warm  feeling  in  her  heart,  and 
sometimes  it  gushed  out.  But,  year  after  year,  it  was 
repressed,  till  she  had  command  over  it ;  and  I  some 
times  think  it  was  best  so.  She  never  loved  me.  I 
thought  she  did,  but  I  was  wrong  ;  and  when  the  truth 
came  in  on  me  with  blinding  force,  it  made  me  mad. 
That  love  had  been  my  life.  You  lawyers,  who  deal  in 
constant  excitement  in  the  passions  of  other  men,  and 
all  whose  lives  are  among  men,  know  nothing  of  the 
life  of  the  artist.  Solitary  and  alone,  from  sunrise  to 
sunset,  he  studies  his  own  soul  and  its  treasured  im 
ages.  One  exquisite  scene,  one  beautiful  thought  lives 
for  years  in  his  brain,  and  is  his  mental  food,  until  it  is 
exhausted,  or  until  another  takes  its  place  ;  and  when 
that  one  is  so  beloved  that  he  neither  looks  for  nor  de 
sires  another,  then  it  becomes  a  part  of  his  soul,  his 


RAIL-ROAD    ROMANCE.  283 

very  being.  It  lends  color  to  his  imagination,  it  guides 
his  pencil,  it  pervades  his  work.  Go  where  he  will,  it 
is  the  same  one  fixed  star  before  his  soul,  toward  which, 
like  the  needle,  it  turns  with  unerring,  immutable  affec 
tion.  I  have  wondered  whether  any  woman  has  thought 
of  what  it  is  to  be  loved  by  an  artist. 

"  '  The  change  came.  I  will  not  tell  you  how,  or 
when,  or  where.  Enough  that  I  looked  once  into  her 
speaking  face,  once  into  her  deep,  fathomless  eyes,  and 
finding  there  the  cold,  calm  gaze  of  complete  worldly 
womanhood,  I  went  out  from  her  presence  forever.  I 
will  not  rehearse  the  pain  that  followed.  Why,  man, 
I  had  worshipped  nothing  for  years  and  years  except 
that  growing,  glorious  beauty.  The  astrologer  who  had 
named  a  star,  and  worshipped  it  night  and  morning  for 
fourscore  years,  felt  not  half  the  sense  of  agony,  when 
he  saw  it  vanish  out  of  heaven,  that  I  then  felt.  And 
this  was  a  separate  feeling  from  wounded  love.  I  kept 
all  that  by  itself.  The  first  great  feeling  was  that  I 
had  lost  my  idol ;  and  I  wandered  up  and  down  the 
world,  seeking  another  in  vain.  For  years  I  was  a 
roving  artist,  never  approaching  a  city.  At  length  I 
saw  this  glen,  and  I  liked  it.  I  bought  this  piece  of 
ground  for  a  trifle,  and  built  the  hut.  I  live  quietly 
and  calmly,  selling  a  little  fruit  in  summer  for  the  pur 
chase  of  what  I  need  in  winter. 

"  *  The  old  idolatry  has  not  been  roused  for  thirty 
years  or  more.  I  have  not  painted  in  twenty  years.  I 
find  this  life  better.  I  am  alone  here.  No  one  disturbs 
me.  I  never  read.  I  seldom  think.  I  live,  that  is  all. 


284  LATER    YEARS. 

"  '  Sometimes  I  have  dreamed  —  not  of  late  years, 
though  —  and  she  has  come  back  to  me  in  all  the  rav 
ishing  beauty  of  her  girldhood.  Those  dreams  were 
more  blessed  than  the  reality,  for  in  them  she  loved 
me.  But,  in  truth,  she  never  did.  I  have  lived  for 
thirty  years,  and,  since  that  parting,  when  she  was  ra 
diant  in  cold,  calm  splendor,  as  the  moon  in  winter, 
and  I  crushed  down  to  earth,  I  have  not  felt  the  clasp 
of  her  hand,  looked  into  her  face,  nor  heard  of  her  ex 
istence  or  her  fate  till  this  day !' 

"  So  that  was  she." 

"  '  Yes,  that  was  she.  It  was  like  a  flash  from  heav 
en,  that  meeting  her.  I  was  so  calm  this  morning — I 
walked  so  happily  down  the  valley.  I  had  no  thought 
of  this,  and  when  I  raised  my  eyes,  and  saw,  and  knew 
her,  I  thought  at  first  that  I  would  throw  my  arms 
around  her,  and  call  her  mine !  But  the  old  look  was 
there  unchanged  —  the  same  cold  gaze  of  passionless 
worldliness,  and  it  chilled  me  as  of  old.  It  was  hard 
to  leave  her  then,  and  how  hard  now  !  But  the  end  is 
approaching  rapidly.  Do  you  see  this  ?  (He  pointed 
to  his  white  complexion  and  the  red  cheek  half  covered 
by  his  beard.)  The  village  doctor  tells  me  it  is  con 
sumption,  and  I  am  soon  to  be  part  and  parcel  of  the 
ground  I  am  treading  on.  I  did  not  wish  this.  I  rather 
shrink  from  it  now.  But  I  have  been  looking  about 
for  a  quiet  place  to  lie,  when  I  go  to  the  rest  I  needs 
must  take,  and  I  have  found  it.  You  have  the  story 
now.' 

"  I  have  given  you,  as  nearly  as  possible,  the  words 


RAIL-ROAD    ROMANCE.  285 

of  the  hermit,"  continued  B ,  "  and  have  only  omit 
ted  the  details  of  his  parting  with  the  object  of  his  love. 
I  half  suspect  that  she  was  a  coquette,  but  he  most 
earnestly  denied  it,  and  did  her  all  honor  in  his  story. 
His  paintings  and  sketches  were  scattered  around  in 
much  confusion,  but  they  were  evidently  the  work  of  a 
master  hand.  I  begged  only  this  sketch,  a  pencil  draw 
ing  of  Medea,  which  I  think  shows  the  features  of  the 
portrait  he  first  exhibited.  I  have  given  you  his  story, 
and  you  have  mine.  Such  romances  along  rail-roads 
are  not  of  every-day  occurrence." 


XXXVII. 

C  r  t  *  t 

May,  18—. 

Out  of  the  deep  shade  of  the  silent  fir  grove, 
Trembling,  I  survey  thee,  mountain  head  of  eternity, 
Dazzling,  blinding  summit,  from  whose  vast  height 
My  dimly-perceiving  spirit  floats  into  the  everlasting  V  " 

dear  Joseph,  you  arc  not  in  Chamouni. 
These  are  not  the  Alps.  Can't  you  be  a  lit 
tle  more  quiet,  and  let  us  have  a  cast  across  this  basin 
in  the  hollow,  without  disturbing  the  trout?" 

"'Who  marks  out  there  the  path  for  the  morning  starl 
Who  wreathes  with  blossoms  the  skirt  of  eternal  frost  1 
To  whom,  wild  Arveiron,  in  terrible  harmonies, 
Rolls  up  the  sound  of  thy  tumult  of  billows?  " 

"  There,  Joe,  I  told  you  so.  This  is  not  Arveiron, 
but  the  Hemlock  Run." 

"  That  is  a  poor  pun,  Philip.  Don't  spoil  a  splendid 
quotation  with  such  trash." 

"  I  didn't  intend  a  pun,  Joe,  but,  if  you  don't  get  your 
feet  out  of  my  tackle,  and  attend  to  what  we  came  for, 
I'll  cut  your  acquaintance  till  lunch,  and  go  down  stream 
on  my  own  hook." 

"\4.  la  trout— eh,  Philip  ?" 


TROUT.  287 

"  Bah — that's  more  atrocious  still.  Stand  back  now ; 
I've  put  on  a  well-dressed,  gay  blue  fly,  and  I  intend  to 
prick  the  fellow  that  rose  yonder  under  the  alders  ;  so 
give  me  a  full  swing  for  my  right  arm — so !" 

It  was  a  splendid  morning,  that  one  which  woke  my 
friend's  eloquence.  And  well  he  might  be  eloquent. 
The  mountain  summit  over  against  us  was  white,  and 
stood  up  proudly  in  the  sunlight ;  and  here  and  there, 
out  of  the  snow,  a  lofty  hemlock,  itself  snow-crowned 
and  clothed  in  white  majesty,  stretched  its  giant  form 
toward  the  serene  sky,  as  if  desirous  to  vie  with  the 
mountain  in  dignity  and  glory.  We  had  been  in  the 
forest  until  now,  and  suddenly  coming  out  on  the  "frank 
of  the  stream  into  such  a  splendid  sunshine,  and  such 
a  magnificent  view,  might  well  wake  up  poetry  in  a 
heart  as  susceptible  as  his.  It  would  have  made  rocks 
eloquent.  The  brook  did  praise  God,  with  clear  voice 
and  cheerful.  The  wind  in  the  trees  praised  Him. 
The  delicate  anemone,  peeping  out  from  the  dead  leaves 
of  last  autumn,  praised  Him.  The  sky  praised  Him. 
The  clouds,  winging  swift  flights  over  the  forest,  praised 
Him.  By  my  faith,  all  things  were  eloquent  with 
praises  that  glorious  morning ! 

But  you  are  asking,  How  came  we  there  ?  Know  you 
not  that  in  these  days  the  trout  streams  run  but  a  step 
from  Wall  Street,  and  the  great  salmon  trout  lie  in 
pools  not  far  from  Broadway  ?  You  have  but  to  step 
over  to  the  foot  of  Duane  Street,  open  your  fly  book 
and  arrange  your  tackle,  dress  up  half  a  dozen  flies,  and 
see  the  running-gear  of  your  reel  all  correct,  and,  pres- 


288  LATER    YEARS. 

to  !  you  are  in  the  prettiest  nook  of  a  country  spot  your 
eyes  ever  beheld,  and  the  sun  is  not  so  far  down  in  the 
west  but  that  you  may  hope  to  take  a  dozen  good  trout 
before  he  quite  leaves  you. 

Trout  streams  abound  along  the  Erie  rail-road.  After 
passing  Cochecton,  there  is  not  a  station  at  which  you 
may  not  safely  leave  the  train,  with  full  assurance  of 
being  in  the  neighborhood  of  good  fishing.  It  is  not 
my  purpose  4o  tell  you  the  precise  locality  of  our  pres 
ent  history,  simply  because  Willis  has  forbidden  the 
disclosure.  He  discovered  this  brook  some  time  last 
year,  and  purposes  keeping  its  use  for  himself  and  his 
friends  a  while,  at  least.  We  came  out  in  the  express 
train,  passed  the  afternoon  and  evening  in  resting  and 
preparing,  and  were  away  at  sunrise  for  the  water. 

While  Joe  was  reciting,  I  was  preparing,  and  when 
he  had  concluded,  I  had  thrown  twice  across  the  bottom 
of  the  ripple  without  raising  any  thing.  But  the  third 
cast  was  a  lucky  one,  and  I  hooked  a  splendid  fish. 
His  gold  and  crimson  sides  gleamed  as  he  took  the  fly, 
and  then  again  as  he  sprang  out  of  the  water,  when  he 
felt  the  first  prick  of  the  steel.  My  old  hazel  rod  has 
done  good  service  for  many  years,  and  I  had  it  with  me 
now.  The  fly  tip  was  a  new  one,  selected,  as  I  sup 
posed,  with  great  judgment;  but  I  never  was  more  de 
ceived  by  appearances.  At  the  first  strain  which  I 
gave  it,  I  saw  it  yield  at  one  point  and  bend  nearly  to  a 
right  angle.  This  was  unfortunate,  and  I  made  up  my 
mind  that  I  must  lose  the  fish  or  break  the  tip.  Of 
course,  I  resolved  on  the  latter ;  and  with  a  vigorous 


TROUT.  289 

effort  I  turned  the  trout,  broke  the  tip,  reeled  him  up 
nearly  to  the  end  of  the  broken  rod,  and  landed  him, 
with  his  weight  of  full  three  pounds  on  the  ring  at  the 
end  of  the  third  joint.  As  the  first  trout  of  the  season, 
of  course  we  did  him  honor,  and  after  watching  him  die 
quietly  and  peacefully  on  a  grassy  knoll,  we  wrapped 
him  very  carefully  in  damp  leaves,  and  laid  him  in 
the  basket,  to  be  served  up  with  special  care  when  we 
should  return  to  our  quarters.  My  old  tip,  of  last  and 
many  former  years'  service,  soon  replaced  the  broken 
one,  and  we  now  proceeded  to  whip  the  stream  cau 
tiously  downward. 

Trout  fishing  is  the  same  thing  year  after  year ;  and 
I  have  so  many  times  described  its  incidents,  that  you 
will  hardly  thank  me  now  for  a  new  story  in  old  words. 
The  forenoon  wore  on,  and  by  the  time  the  sun  was 
overhead,  we  had  as  many  as  we  could  well  carry  to 
the  horses,  which  were  now  something  like  a  mile  dis 
tant,  where  we  had  directed  Sam  to  wait  for  us. 

Staggering,  sauntering,  lounging  along  through  the  for 
est  road,  Joe  looked  the  impersonation  of  your  ideas  of 
a  fisherman.  There  was  not  a  dry  rag  on  him,  nor,  for 
that  matter,  was  there  a  clean  one,  for  he  had  plunged 
through  a  swamp  of  black  mud  that  exceeded  in  depth 
all  his  calculations.  But  he  was  cheerful  withal,  and 
his  voice  rang  through  the  woods  in  good  old  songs,  that 
made  them  sound  again.  Those  still,  calm,  quiet  forests 
were  full  of  spots  where  we  could  have  lain  down  and 
rested  ourselves  for  weeks  without  wearying,  if  we  could 
but  have  had  the  sunshine  forever  with  us  through  the 
N 


290  LATER    YEARS. 

trees.  There  were  little  knolls  where  the  dead  leaves 
were  dry  and  warm,  and  the  thick  clusters  of  gleaming 
blue  liverwort  were  mingled  with  white  anemone  and 
whiter  blood-root,  and  where  one  might  lie  and  see  far 
off  the  snowy  mountains,  and  hear  far  off  the  dashing 
brook,  and  so  dream  the  days  away.  It  is  a  glorious 
life,  the  forest  life  ;  and  when  it  tempts  me  with  mem 
ories  of  old  days,  and  weeks,  and  years  passed  in  the 
dim  woods  with  forest  friends,  the  temptation  is  very 
strong.  But  times  are  changed.  I  can  remember  when 
I  wrote  to  you,  describing  a  day's  trout  fishing,  when 
my  light  was  a  pine  knot,  and  my  folio  lay  on  the  floor 
of  the  cabin,  which  boasted  no  table,  and  when,  through 
the  open  door,  I  could  see  a  tall  hemlock  pointing  with 
silent  grandeur  up  to  a  starry,  cloudless  sky  ;  and  now 
I  write  this  letter  with  my  folio  on  a  marble  table  ;  my 
light  is  gas ;  my  seat,  my  room — all  is  different  from 
the  cabin ;  and,  in  place  of  the  hemlock,  I  see  before 
me,  on  an  old  canvas,  a  monk,  who  has  pointed  the 
same  finger  steadily  up  to  heaven  for  some  hundred 
years,  and  who  seems  likely  to  point  thither  when  the 
old  hemlock  shall  be  dust. 

Where  was  I  ?  Ah  !  I  left  Joe  Willis  sauntering  to 
ward  the  wagon,  singing  along  the  wood  road.  He  had 
gone  on  thus  perhaps  half  a  mile,  when  I  saw  him  pause 
and  stoop  down  to  the  ground ;  and  when  I  overtook 
him,  I  found  him  studying  the  physical  developments 
of  a  snail  already  out  in  the  world. 

"  I  say,  Philip,"  said  he  at  length,  looking  at  me  as  1 
had  thrown  myself  on  the  ground  near  him  to  await  his 


TROUT.  291 

returning  consciousness,  "  I  say,  Philip,  I  could  wish  I 
were  a  snail." 

"  To  be  trodden  upon,  oh  my  friend  ?" 

"  Yes,  even  so  ;  to  be  trodden  upon,  so  I  did  not  feel 
the  bitterness  of  resentment.  Do  you  know,  now,  I  be 
lieve  the  perfection  of  humility  is  the  perfection  of  hap 
piness  ?  How  little  I  should  know  of  that  which  now 
oppresses  me,  how  little  I  should  miss  or  regret  that 
which  now  makes  me  happy  !  How  calm  it  would  be, 
how  silent !  How  the  forest  would  be  a  universe  to  me, 
and  the  wood  road  an  ocean  to  cross  once  in  a  lifetime  ! 
I  should  not  live  for  any  hope,  suffer  for  any  disappoint 
ment,  perish  in  any  despair.  I  should  not  see  ghosts 
in  the  night  time,  nor  long  all  day  for  the  night  time  to 
come  that  I  might  see  the  phantoms  again.  I  should 
not  lie  awake  all  night  in  lonesome  watching,  nor  wan 
der  about  all  day  in  idleness.  I  should  live  a  little 
while,  without  having  bound  myself  to  any  thing  I  loved 
more  than  my  own  shell,  and  then  I  should  die,  and 
there  were  an  end  of  all." 

I  did  not  speak,  for  I  could  not ;  but  I  looked  up  into 
his  face,  into  the  eyes  of  my  old  friend,  and  as  I  look 
ed  at  him,  and  he  at  me,  I  could  see  the  deep  wells 
filling  up,  up,  up,  and  I  was  still  silent,  but  I  pointed 
away  at  the  sky  that  was  so  blue  and  deep  above  the 
mountain  peaks,  and  as  I  pointed  steadily,  firmly,  he  at 
first  refused  to  look,  but  at  length  he  yielded,  and  his 
gaze  grew  earnest,  unspeakably  earnest  and  longing, 
and  I  walked  on  and  left  him  there.  You  would  have 
smiled,  perhaps — nay,  would  have  laughed  outright,  had 


292  LATER    YEARS. 

you,  in  wandering  through  the  forest,  caught  sight  of 
Willis,  covered  with  mud,  looking  more  like  a  scaven 
ger  than  the  man  he  was,  standing  motionless  in  the 
forest  road,  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  fathomless  abyss 
above.  But  you,  who  know  him,  would  not  have  laugh 
ed  when  you  recognized  him,  for  you  would  have  known 
what  filled  his  eagle  vision,  what  he  saw  beyond  the 
blue,  what  ineffable  beauty,  and  glory,  and  blessedness 
he  was  looking  into  on  that  calm  spring  morning  in 
the  old  wood  road. 

In  the  evening  we  were  sitting  in  the  room  of  the 
country  inn,  whiling  away  the  comfortable  hours  of  af 
ter-dinner  with  pleasant  talk.  A  capital  dinner  it  was, 
too,  that  we  had  eaten.  There  was  every  luxury  of 
the  country,  and  we  needed  nothing  from  the  city  ;  and 
we  had  the  trout,  the  first  one,  and  a  long  succession 
of  the  same  sort,  and  we  ate,  and  ate,  and,  on  my  word, 
I  believe  we  should  have  eaten  till  morning  if  we  had 
not  been  stopped  by  the  reflection  that  we  should  have 
no  time  for  a  cigar  unless  we  took  it  in  the  evening. 
Such  appetites  does  the  forest  give,  and  such  dinners 
does  the  country  afford  to  such  appetites. 

The  sun  was  long  gone,  and  the  moon  lay  in  the 
east  when  we  came  out  from  dinner  to  the  piazza,  and 
took  the  large  chairs  placed  for  us  by  Sam  (the  best  of 
attendants  that  a  country  inn  ever  boasted).  "Willis  lit 
his  cigar,  and  elevated  his  feet  to  the  angle  of  comfort. 
I  followed  his  excellent  example,  and  so  the  evening 
wore  on  while  we  were  silent  and  thoughtful.  It  was 
nearly  nine  o'clock  when  our  solitude  was  interrupted. 


TROUT.  293 

An  old  man  came  down  the  village  road,  and  paused 
for  a  moment  in  front  of  the  tavern,  and  stared  at  our 
boots,  the  soles  of  which  were  the  only  portions  of  us 
or  of  our  dress  visible  to  an  outsider.  Doubtless  the 
boots  were  sufficient  to  prove  that  we  were  citizens ; 
for,  after  due  inspection  of  them,  I  heard  him  mutter 
something  about  strangers,  and  he  sat  himself  down  on 
the  lowest  step  of  the  piazza,  and  smoked  as  steadily 
at  his  pipe  as  we  at  our  cigars.  It  was  a  clay  pipe  of 
the  simplest  form,  and  as  he  smoked  the  clouds  grew 
thick  around  his  head,  and  almost  concealed  the  strag 
gling  white  hair  which  flowed  down  over  his  shoulders 
out  from  under  a  felt  hat  of  the  oldest  kind.  His  back 
was  toward  me,  and,  as  I  endeavored  to  trace  the  out 
lines  of  his  head  and  shoulders  in  the  dim  moonlight, 
the  curling  smoke  seemed  to  create  a  sort  of  halo  around 
him,  and  the  picture  was  perfect  when  he  took  off  his 
rude  hat  and  let  me  see  the  contour  of  a  noble  head. 

For  a  long  time  we  continued  silent,  and  the  moon 
went  up  the  sky,  and  the  clouds  drifted  into  silver  glo 
ries,  and  out  of  them,  one  by  one,  as  if  in  procession  to 
a  holy  place  ;  and  the  old  man,  and  Willis,  and  I  sat 
and  gazed  at  moon,  and  sky,  and  clouds,  and  the  night 
went  on. 

It  was  then  ten  o'clock — half  past — and  the  landlord 
came  out  quietly  for  a  last  cigar,  and,  without  speaking 
to  any  of  us,  took  a  seat  near  us,  and  added  to  the  smoky 
cloud,  and  Sam  came  from  the  kitchen  with  a  stump  of 
tobacco  between  his  teeth,  at  which  he  puffed  vigorous 
ly,  and,  touching  his  cap  as  he  passed  the  old  man,  sat 


294  LATER    YEARS. 

himself  down  at  the  other  end  of  the  step,  and  smoked 
in  silence. 

I  had  long  ago  begun  to  imagine  a  romance  about 
that  fine  old  head,  and  for  half  an  hour  had  been  re 
peating  to  myself  the  possible  events  that  had  whiten 
ed  it,  when  Tiny,  the  little  daughter  of  the  landlord,  who 
should  have  been  sleeping  three  hours  ago,  came  shin 
ing  out  in  the  moonlight  in  her  white  night-dress,  and, 
seeing  the  old  man  on  the  step,  rushed  down  with  a 
chirrup  of  delight,  and  threw  her  little  arms  around  his 
neck.  He,  nothing  angered  by  the  rude  assault  of  the 
little  beauty,  swung  her  gently  into  his  lap,  and  I  heard 
him  whisper  with  a  half  sigh  as  he  looked  at  her,  "Ah, 
petite,  she  was  like  thee." 

He  spoke  in  French.  My  fancies  were  dissipated  at 
once,  for  no  one  of  them  had  painted  him  a  Frenchman. 
But  now  I  had  other  fancies,  for  who  did  the  old  man 
mean  to  say  was  like  Tiny,  and  what  sweet  memory 
was  floating  around  his  old  head,  more  holy  than  the 
moonlight  ? 

At  length  the  story  was  told  ;  for  the  words  he  utter 
ed  broke  the  spell  of  silence,  and  the  landlord  address 
ed  the  old  man. 

"  Like — who  is  she  like  ?" 

"  She  is  so  like  my  Mary,  my  blessed  Mary,  that  has 
been  dead  for  almost  fifty  years." 

"  Do  you  remember  fifty  years  ?"  demanded  "Willis, 
with  a  voice  that  betokened  surprise. 

"  Yes,  wellnigh  seventy,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Why,  I  can't  recall  twoscore  years ;  and  it's  a  heavy 


TROUT. 


295 


load  to  bear,  the  memory  of  my  shorter  life  ;  how  can 
you  bear  up  with  the  load  of  memories  of  threescore 
and  ten  ?" 

The  old  man  rose  slowly  from  his  seat,  and  placed 
the  child,  already  half  asleep,  in  the  arms  of  Sam,  who 
stood  ready  to  receive  her,  and  then,  turning  a  calm 
hazel  eye  toward  Joe  "Willis,  spoke  in  a  tone  in  which 
pride  and  sorrow  were  strangely  mingled  : 

"  I  was  at  the  Pyramids,  at  Acre,  at  the  bridge  of 
Lodi,  at  Marengo,  Austerlitz,  Jena,  Moscow,  Waterloo." 
We  started  to  our  feet,  and  were  ready  to  do  homage  to 
the  veteran  of  a  hundred  battles. 

"Why,  friend,  you  are  one  of  the  nobles  of  France. 
They  should  build  you  a  palace  at  Versailles.  The 
nephew  of  his  uncle  should  know  you." 

The  old  man  smiled  for  a  moment,  and  then  placed 
the  old  hat  on  his  head  and  walked  away.  The  next  in 
stant  he  turned  back,  and,  addressing  Willis  in  French, 
asked  him  if  he  were  inclined  to  walk  a  little  way. 
"  With  my  friend,  here,  and  you  ?  Yes."  He  made  no 
objection  to  my  company,  and  so  we  went  a  hundred 
steps  down  the  road,  and  then  turned  into  the  wood  a 
little  way,  until  we  came  to  an  opening  where  the 
moonlight  reached  the  ground  through  the  grove,  which 
had  been  somewhat  thinned.  A  glance  showed  us  that 
we  were  in  the  village  burial-ground.  The  old  man 
led  us  across  the  inclosure  to  a  mound,  unmarked  save 
by  the  luxuriant  masses  of  the  low  myrtle,  whose  blue 
flowers  were  already  blooming  profusely,  though  hard 
ly  to  be  distinguished  in  the  light  of  the  moon.  Here 


296  LATER    YEARS. 

our  guide  paused,  and,  pointing  at  the  grave,  said  sim 
ply,  but  significantly,  "  She  is  there." 

"The  mother  of  Marie?" 

"  Her  mother,  my  Marie  ;"  and  he  bowed  his  head  si 
lently. 

And  now  I  am  aware  that  this  simple  incident  of  our 
visit  to  the  country  is  likely  to  be  prolonged  to  a  tedi 
ous  degree.  I  am  indeed  afraid  that  it  is  too  stupid  to 
afford  you  any  interest. 

But  there  was  deep  interest  in  it  to  me,  and  in  his 
simple  story  of  a  life  of  wars  and  of  love. 

He  told  us  of  a  sunny  hill  in  Provence,  and  a  valley 
where  the  happy  villagers  lived  in  the  years  long  gone  ; 
and  in  his  quiet  way  he  named  their  names  —  names 
of  persons  I  had  never  before  heard  of — no  one  had 
ever  heard  of  them  out  of  that  valley  home.  But  were 
they  not  men  and  women  of  the  world,  who  had  lived, 
and  loved,  and  borne  their  parts  in  this  great  drama  of 
life,  and  gone  off  the  stage  half  a  century  ago  ?  and  was 
it  not  curious  that  the  plain  old  peasant  who  died  in  the 
year  '97  should  be  named  in  this  late  year  in  the  Amer 
ican  forest  ? 

And  then  there  was  a  story  of  love — the  same  old 
story  that  the  world  has  heard  so  many  thousand  years, 
repeated  so  many  myriad  times  since  the  day  that  the 
sons  of  God  loved  the  daughters  of  men  ;  and  his  eye 
kindled  as  he  said  she  was  young  and  beautiful  then. 

Then !  \Yhen  ?  It  was  a  startling  thought  that  she 
was  young  once  and  beautiful,  but  old,  bent,  feeble, 
withered,  dead,  dust  now  !  Nay,  that  she  was  young 


TROUT.  297 

and  beautiful  again  now !  that  she  was  radiant  now ! 
that  she  was  star-eyed  now !  that  she  was  verily  an 
angel  now  !  And  so  he  seemed  to  think,  as  one  "by  one 
these  thoughts  came  out  in  the  conversation,  and  he 
grew  even  eloquent  with  the  thought  of  seeing  her  soon 
again. 

He  told  us  of  his  child,  the  first  and  the  last,  and  it 
was  curious  to  see  the  faith  he  placed  in  the  rites  of  a 
Church  that  he  long  since  left,  when  he  named  the  in 
fant,  and  rejoiced  that  she  was  in  holy  ground,  in  the 
village  of  his  own  birth. 

And  so  the  night  was  growing  old,  and  we  lingered 
with  him,  hearing  him  speak  of  his  great  achievements, 
of  the  rush  of  armies,  'of  the  overthrow  of  nations. 
"  Why,  man,"  said  Willis,  "  you  have  been  in  at  the 
death  of  a  great  many  kingdoms  and  peoples  !" 

"I  was  a  soldier  of  the  empire  !"  The  reply  was  el 
oquent  in  its  simplicity,  and  we  left  him  there  ;  and  I 
do  not  know  but  the  old  man  is  there  yet.  It  can  not 
be  long  before  he  takes  his  place  by  his  Marie,  and 
then  there  will  be  a  pleasant  meeting  where  no  wars 
shall  disturb  them. 

Willis  and  I  strolled  back  to  the  inn,  thoughtful  and 
silent,  while  the  calm  moonlight  rested  on  the  valley 
and  the  mountain,  on  the  white  cottages  of  the  villa 
gers,  and  the  myrtle-covered  grave  of  the  beloved  Marie. 

That  same  moonlight  fell  on  you  in  the  city,  and  you 

were  walking  along  the  noisy  street.     It  shone  in  at 

the  window  where  the  student  was  beginning  his  night 

of  labor,  and  it  peered  through  the  close-drawn  curtains 

N2 


298  LATER    YEARS. 

into  the  brilliant  festival.  That  night  I  know  there  was 
a  gay  scene  among  some  of  those  who  will  read  this 
sketch,  and  the  song  and  dance  lent  the  swift  hours 
their  lightest  wings. 

There  was  a  gathering  of  the  young,  the  gay,  the 
fashionable,  a  crowd  of  pleasure-seekers  of  all  kinds, 
and  the  moonlight  would  have  been  kept  out,  as  not 
companionable  to  such  ;  but  it  found  its  way  through  an 
open  shutter  and  the  delicate  tracery  of  a  curtain,  and 
it  caught  the  eye  of  one  of  the  loveliest  there,  and  she 
paused,  and  a  spell  of  holy  influences  came  with  the 
glory,  subduing  and  softening  every  thought,  but  the 
next  instant  she  swept  on  in  the  mazy  dance,  and  the 
moonlight  fell  unheeded,  and  was  lost  in  the  glare  of 
the  chandeliers. 

And  just  then,  in  the  up  country,  an  old  man  stood 
with  his  head  bare  in  the  same  moon's  light,  and  look 
ed  first  at  a  grave  at  his  feet,  and  then  up  into  the  lab 
yrinth  of  stars  and  star-dust,  and  the  night  passed  slow 
ly  on  over  both  scenes,  and  the  moon  looked  as  calmly, 
coldly,  and  serenely  on  both. 

Could  we  but  see  all  the  world  at  one  sweeping 
glance ! 


XXXVIII. 

€  jr  i   (Hi 

September,  18 — . 

IT  was  at  Jullien's  concert.     A  strange  scene  that,  in 
which  to  meet  the  friends  of  old  days  in  the  coun 
try.     But  it  was  thus  : 

After  our  summer  rambles,  of  which  I  have  written 
nothing,  we  all  returned  to  the  city,  and  then,  evening 
after  evening,  we  were  at  Jullien's.  The  magnificent 
room,  the  brilliant  crowd,  the  ever-changing,  never- 
tiresome  scene — these  alone  would  be  enough  to  at 
tract  us  ;  for  we  love  to  look  on  gay  assemblies,  and  at 
no  concerts  or  assemblies  in  New  York  have  there  ever 
been  more  brilliant  audiences  than  these. 

It  was  the  third  night  we  had  been  there,  and  the 
crowd  was  more  brilliant  than  ever.  "We  were  seated 
in  the  balcony,  on  the  right  as  you  enter,  half  way  to 
the  front  of  the  stage.  The  orchestra  was  just  passing 
through  the  battle  scene  in  the  American  duadrille, 
and  the  enthusiasm  of  the  audience  was  at  its  highest 
point.  I  held  an  opera-glass  to  my  eyes,  and  was  mov 
ing  it  about,  enjoying  keenly  the  appearances  of  the 
successive  faces  that  entered  my  field  of  vision.  Did 
you  ever  try  it  ?  If  not,  let  me  recommend  the  plan, 
and  you  will  find  it  well  worth  the  trouble.  Take  a 


300  LATER    YEARS. 

distant  part  of  the  crowd,  and  let  the  glass  bring  groups 
of  three  or  four  faces  at  a  time  before  you,  and  watch 
the  expressions  that  indicate  their  varied  emotions. 

More  than  a  hundred  different  faces  had  attracted 
my  notice,  when  suddenly  I  found  one  that  arrested  my 
gaze.  It  was  there  but  an  instant.  The  face  was  that 
of  a  lady  in  the  perfection  of  young  but  matured  beau 
ty.  Eyes  that,  even  at  that  distance  and  in  that  light, 
were  darkly  blue,  lips  that  seemed  to  speak  words 
of  true  womanly  affection,  even  without  moving,  audi 
ble  even  across  that  vast  hall  to  the  ears  of  those  that 
knew  those  features,  a  sunny  brow,  and  a  serene  smile 
— all  these  made  up  the  countenance  that  I  caught 
sight  of,  and,  as  I  said,  only  for  an  instant,  and  the 
next  came  the  encore,  and  Hail  Columbia,  and  the  crowd 
arose,  and  the  face  vanished  from  my  field  of  vision, 
and  I  sought  it  in  vain  again. 

I  was  sure  that  I  knew  that  face,  and  the  next  even 
ing  (I  confess  it)  I  paid  less  attention  to  the  music 
than  to  the  search  after  that  countenance.  It  was  ap 
parently  a  useless  search ;  and,  indeed,  it  was  hardly 
to  be  supposed  that  every  one  came,  night  after  night, 

as  did  we.  Late  in  the  evening,  we,  that  is, and 

I,  strolled  out  on  the  outer  balcony  overlooking  the  bay, 
and  listened  here  to  the  mellowed  notes,  which  needed 
no  mellowing,  but  which  seemed  fit  company  for  the 
water  and  the  stars,  that  lent  additional  attraction  to 
the  eye  and  the  heart.  It  was  dark.  The  first  rays  of 
the  late  moon  were  falling  on  white  sails  out  on  the 
bay,  but  the  dark  forest  on  the  Battery  still  kept  Gas- 


THE    OLD    PRECENTOR.  301 

tie  Garden  in  a  gloom.  A  ray  of  light,  streaming  from 
a  gas-burner  within  the  walls,  fell  on  my  face  as  a 
group  of  persons,  walking  along,  passed  near  us,  and 
one  of  them  suddenly  paused  and  advanced  to  me  with 
outstretched  hands. 

"  I  knew  I  could  not  be  mistaken.  Three  nights  in 
succession  I  have  seen  you  here,  but  was  not  sure  of 
you  till  this  moment." 

I  have  said  it  was  a  strange  scene  in  which  to  meet 
the  friends  of  olden  times  in  the  country.  I  dare  not 
write  how  many  years  have  passed  since  I  last  saw 
that  face.  Few  or  many,  they  have  been  marked  with 
sufficient  incidents  of  joy  and  of  sorrow  to  make  a  gulf 
of  seeming  impassable  width  to  lie  between  me  and 
those  days ;  and  yet  its  width  is  only  seeming,  and  our 
joined  hands  made  a  bridge  over  which  we  passed  to 
that  dear  old  time. 

It  was  in  that  pleasant  home,  whereof  I  have  often 
before  written,  that  we  lived,  and  knew  each  other. 
She  was  one  of  the  friends  of  early  days,  and  I  was  so 
forcibly  impressed  with  the  contrast  of  scenes,  now  and 
then,  here  and  there,  that  I  forthwith  resolved,  with 
her  permission,  to  relate  the  story,  as  illustrative  of  the 
contrasts  which  city  life  often  afford  us. 

Among  the  old  men  of  that  country  place,  of  whom 
Simon  Gray,  and  John  Maclean,  and  others,  have  been 
named  heretofore,  David  Anderson  was,  perhaps,  the 
most  beloved  by  all  the  country  around.  He  had  come 
into  the  neighborhood  thirty  years  or  more  before  the 
time  of  which  I  speak,  and  opened  a  singing-school.  A 


302  LATER    YEARS. 

visit  which  was,  perhaps,  not  intended  for  longer  than 
a  month  or  so,  gradually  extended  to  months,  and,  after 
a  year  or  two,  he  had  become  fairly  domesticated  in 
the  congregation,  as  teacher  of  vocal  music,  precentor 
in  the  church,  and  afterward  leader  of  the  choir.  He 
had  a  very  small  property,  which  he  transferred  to  his 
new  home,  and  with  which  he  bought  a  few  acres  of 
land,  that  served  him  for  a  home  and  a  farm. 

David  was  a  good,  warm-hearted  man,  and  at  length 
won  the  heart  of  the  daughter  of  a  farmer  of  some 
wealth,  and  no  one  was  surprised  when  they  were  mar 
ried,  but  every  one  said  that  Lucy  Smith  was  just  the 
wife  for  him :  they  were  both  so  quiet,  so  gentle,  so 
perfectly  calm,  and  both  loved  music  so  much.  Years 
glided  along  in  the  old  country  fashion,  and  Lucy's 
father  died,  and  David  and  his  wife  succeeded  to  his 
possessions.  But  David  still  taught  the  village  singing- 
school,  still  led  the  congregation  in  their  Sabbath  songs, 
and  loved  more  and  more  to  hear  and  talk  about  the 
great  masters  of  music.  Indeed,  almost  his  whole  life 
was  devoted  to  this  one  thought,  and  he  read,  and  read, 
and  talked,  and  talked  of  nothing  else. 

His  children  were  early  taught  what  their  father 
knew,  and  were  good  singers  at  very  early  years ;  and 
many  a  long  evening  in  the  old  house  was  passed  with 
stories  of  the  great  musicians,  whose  works  the  old  man 
longed  with  unutterable  desire  to  hear  before  he  died. 

He  would  sit  with  Lucy  on  one  knee  and  Mary  on 
the  other,  while  his  boys  lay  at  his  feet  on  the  floor, 
and  tell  them  of  the  sublime  passages  in  the  great 


THE    OLD    PRECENTOR.  303 

works  of  the  masters,  until  their  little  hearts  grew  full 
of  it,  and  they  would  sleep  and  dream  of  hearing  them, 
though  they  heard  nothing  "but  the  wind  wailing  around 
the  old  house. 

It  was  a  pleasant  old  house,  built  of  stone,  with  huge 
oak  rafters  hewn  out  of  the  forest  to  support  its  un- 
plastered  roof.  The  first  floor  had  four  large  rooms, 
with  a  kitchen  larger  than  any  of  them  in  the  rear. 
The  second  story  was  one  large,  garret-like  chamber, 
extending  over  the  whole  house,  with  steps  going  down 
into  a  smaller  garret  over  the  kitchen,  where  the  dried 
fruits  and  seeds  were  kept  hanging.  The  northeast 
room,  with  its  broad  hearth,  was  the  sitting-room,  out 
of  which  opened  the  bed-room  of  the  old  man.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  hall,  the  front  room  was  the  parlor, 
and  the  other  belonged  to  Lucy  and  Mary,  the  boys 
sleeping  in  the  garret.  I  am  thus  minute  in  this  de 
scription,  because  I  design  nothing  in  this  letter  except 
to  show  the  contrasts  of  country  and  city  life.  But  I 
must  hasten  to  the  single  point  of  contrast  that  so  im 
pressed  me. 

It  was  a  winter  night,  cold,  starless,  and  stormy,  and 
the  wind  whirled  around  the  old  house  as  if  seekino- 

O 

some  prey  within  its  heavy  walls ;  and  the  spirit  of 
David  Anderson  was  struggling  to  be  free.  A  long  life 
was  nearly  over,  a  long  story  wellnigh  told  ;  and  around 
him  were  gathered  his  children,  and  some  few  of  his 
friends  and  their  friends,  who  had  come  to  support  him 
and  them  in  the  hour  of  separation.  There  was  the 
venerable  pastor,  and  Doctor  "Wilson,  and  old  Abram, 


304  LATER    YEARS. 

the  unfailing  helper  in  sickness  and  trouble  ;  and  there 
was  Solomon  Pierson,  and  his  wife,  and  his  daughter, 
and  one  or  two  others,  and  the  family  of  David,  and, 
last  of  all,  myself,  who,  being  accidentally  at  Doctor 
Wilson's  when  he  was  sent  for  in  haste,  had  come  with 
him  to  bid  farewell  to  a  man  who  had  always  com 
manded  my  respect  and  love. 

He  was  traveling  a  dark  and  weary  road.  Sickness 
had  Broken  down  the  stout  man,  and  the  approach  of 
death  had  brought  around  him  visions  of  other  and  sun 
nier  days,  that  seemed  to  fade  as  they  came  near  to  him. 
It  was  painful  to  watch  the  delirious  agony  with  which 
he  reached  out  his  thin  and  wasted  arms  to  embrace 
some  gliding  phantom,  or  stretched  forward  to  catch  the 
tones  of  some  beloved  voice,  that  mocked  him  with  si 
lence  when  he  most  longed  to  hear.  But  this  did  not 
long  continue,  and  at  length  a  change  came  over  his 
countenance  ;  and,  after  an  interval  of  deep  silence,  he 
spoke  in  a  low,  deep  voice,  feeble,  but  full  of  sweetness 
to  their  ears,  who  shall  soon  hear  it  no  more  forever.  I 
can  not  recall  now  his  words,  but  they  were  calm  and 
thoughtful  phrases,  full  of  affection  and  of  faithful  warn 
ing  to  his  beloved  family.  Lucy,  the  eldest  girl,  was 
weeping  sadly  ;  but  his  calmness  arrested  her  attention, 
and  she  ceased  to  sob.  Then  there  were  some  passa 
ges  from  holy  writ.  Then  he  spoke  of  the  music  of 
heaven,  and  said,  "  As  well  the  singers  as  the  play 
ers  on  instruments  shall  be  there  !"  and  I  heard  him 
murmuring  a  verse  from  the  old  hymn  "Jerusalem :" 


THE    OLD    PRECENTOR.  305 

"  There  David  stands,  with  harp  in  hand, 

As  master  of  the  choir ; 
A  thousand  times  that  man  were  bless'd, 

That  might  his  music  hear ! 
There  Mary  sings  '  Magnificat,' 

With  tunes  surpassing  sweet ; 
And  all  the  virgins  bear  their  part, 

Singing  about  her  feet." 

And  then  the  old  man  made  as  if  he  would  rise  up  ; 
and  they  lifted  him,  and  he  smiled,  and  raised  his  right 
hand  and  his  fore  finger,  thin,  white,  and  shining  as  the 
baton  of  Jullien,  and  beating  time,  feebly  but  correct 
ly,  he  broke  out  into  that  song  of  triumph : 

"  Those  blessed  ones,  how  bright  they  shine ! 

Whence  all  their  bright  array  1 
How  came  they  to  the  blissful  seats 
Of  everlasting  dayl" 

Clear,  soft,  and  rich  as  in  his  youth,  the  voice  of  the 
old  singer  went  through  the  first  verse  to  its  close. 
But  in  the  next  it  grew  lower  and  feebler,  and  still  the 
lips  moved,  and  still  the  song  was  heard,  but  now  more 
distant,  and  now  fainter  and  far  off;  and,  even  after 
Lucy's  arms  were  thrown  around  the  neck  of  her  dead 
father,  we  fancied  we  heard  him  —  who  dare  say  we 
did  not  hear  him  ? — joining  the  far-ofF  songs,  that  no 
human  voice  may  ever  join  till  death  has  taken  off  the 
seal  of  clay  that  now  prevents  it. 

There  was  another  scene  I  intended  to  describe.  It 
was  the  funeral  of  David  Anderson,  and  the  plaintive 
music  of  the  village  choir  when  he  was  brought  for  the 


306  LATER     YEARS. 

last  time  into  the  old  church.  But  I  am  trespassing  al 
ready  too  much. 

The  next  time  that  I  saw  Lucy  Anderson  was  in  the 
crowd  at  Jullien's,  after  long  years  had  changed  us  both. 
She  is  married,  in  a  distant  city — is  wealthy,  and,  I 
doubt  not,  happy.  "  If  my  dear  old  father  could  but 
have  heard  this !"  said  she,  as  the  sublime  strains  of  the 
"  Stabat  Mater"  came  out  to  us  on  the  balcony. 

Go  to  Metropolitan  Hall ;  select  a  seat  where  your 
glass  can  sweep  the  entire  assembly  ;  then  look,  if 
you  can  divert  your  attention  from  the  orchestra  long 
enough,  for  a  Roman  face,  a  soft  complexion,  two  dark 
blue  eyes,  moved  now  to  delight  by  the  stirring  strains 
of  the  quadrille,  now  almost  to  tears  by  the  melodies 
of  Beethoven,  and  (if  you  happen  to  select  the  right 
face)  you  will  have  seen  the  daughter  of  David  Ander 
son,  erewhile  precentor  of  the  church  and  teacher  of 
music  in  the  up-country — now,  I  doubt  not,  a  leader  in 
song  that  surpasses  our  most  ravishing  dreams  of  mel 
ody. 


XXXIX. 

•itmt 

New  York,  October,  18—. 

OTTSCHALK'S  concert  on  Thursday  evening  was 
brilliant  beyond  what  is  usual  in  the  city. 

It  was  a  clear,  cold  evening,  and  I  left  the  room 
early  to  join  some  friends  at  Jullien's.  I  walked  down 
the  middle  aisle,  passing  groups  of  brilliant  ladies, 
splendidly  dressed,  and  gleaming  with  all  the  elegance 
of  our  fair  citizens,  unsurpassed  in  the  world  for  beauty 
and  style,  and  so  out  into  the  cold  air  on  Broadway.  I 
had  not  taken  ten  steps  on  the  pavement  when  a  stran 
ger  accosted  me,  and  I  paused  to  look  at  him. 

He  was  a  tall,  thin,  gaunt  man,  of  forty-five  or  fifty, 
with  a  pale  face,  and  eyes  that  haunt  me  yet,  so  mild, 
and  blue,  and  melancholy  were  they.  His  clothes  were 
good,  though  illy  fitted  to  his  form.  But  that  was  more 
the  fault  of  the  form  than  of  the  tailor,  for  I  doubt 
whether  any  one  could  be  found  to  fit  exactly  the  va 
rious  contortions  into  which  nature  had  twisted  that 
lank  body,  or  the  worse  ones  into  which  he  was  con 
stantly  throwing  it.  But  his  appearance  was  that  of  a 
man  of  comfortable  means,  and  yet  he  was  shivering 
with  the  cold  air,  and  his  knees  trembled  fearfully ; 
and  those  melancholy  eyes  of  his  so  fascinated  me,  that 


308  LATER    YEARS. 

I  felt  like  taking  off  my  cloak  and  throwing  it  about 
him  ;  and  I  verily  believe  I  should  have  done  so  had 
I  met  him  elsewhere  than  in  Broadway,  or  had  I  not 
suddenly  thought  of  the  incongruous  effect  my  short 
cloak  would  produce  on  his  long  body. 

"  Can  you  show  me  the  way  to  a  good  hotel  ?"  The 
question  was  curious  enough,  in  sight  of  the  St.  Nich 
olas  and  Prescott,  and  at  the  very  door  of  the  Metropol 
itan.  I  pointed  into  the  office  of  the  latter  without 
speaking. 

"  Ah  !  that's  too  brilliant  for  me,"  said  he  ;  "  I  want 
something  more  home-like  than  that." 

It  was  a  thought  for  Broadway,  that,  wasn't  it  ?  A 
man  couldn't  go  into  the  Metropolitan,  for  it  was  not 
home-like.  It  somewhat  touched  rne.  The  tone  of 
voice  had  something  to  do  with  it,  but  the  eyes  had 
more.  They  did  not  change  their  expression  at  all  as 
he  looked  at  me.  I  wondered  what  would  be  home-like 
to  him,  and  what  sort  of  a  home  his  was.  Had  he  been 
brought  up  in  New  York,  accustomed  to  its  bustle  and 
brilliant  scenes,  he  would  not  have  made  that  objection ; 
so  he  must  be  from  the  country.  Home  is  a  word  that 
expresses  a  varied  meaning  to  various  persons.  To 
some,  a  gay  and  changing  round  of  pleasure  ;  to  some, 
a  calm,  still,  undisturbed  resting-place ;  to  one,  a  lone 
some,  desolate  spot ;  and  to  another,  a  blazing  hearth 
and  a  round  of  loving  hearts.  To  me,  in  that  crowded, 
roaring,  rattling  street,  the  word  brought  back  a  clear 
\rision  of  the  old  house  under  the  trees,  the  waving 
branches,  through  which  the  moonlight  fell  in  silver 


HOME.  309 

showers,  the  old  half-door,  across  which  I  used  to 
lean  when  my  head  was  only  high  enough  to  reach 
up  to  it,  and  I  had  to  stand  on  a  stool  to  climb  out  over 
that  forbidden  passage  ;  and,  along  with  that,  a  vision, 
too,  of  the  broad  chimney,  the  pile  of  logs  flashing,  and 
sparkling,  and  blazing  upward,  the  roasting  chestnuts, 
and  the  free-hearted  group  that  burned  their  fingers 
with  them,  while  the  more  sedate  sat  quietly,  and  read, 
or  talked,  and  listened  to  the  wind  roaring  outside 
among  the  trees.  It  would  take  a  volume  to  write  all 
the  thoughts  that  flashed  through  my  mind  at  that  one 
word,  and  yet  it  was  but  an  instant  that  I  paused,  and, 
looking  at  the  man,  asked  him,  "  What  do  you  call 
home-like  ?" 

"  Something  quiet — some  still  place  where  I  can  get 
a  little  sleep  ;  for  I  am  weary,  very  weary,  and  I  must 
sleep,  or  I  shall  die."  There  was  something  strangely 
musical  in  his  voice,  but  I  could  not  mistake  any  long 
er.  He  was  not  a  sane  man.  He  could  hardly  be  call 
ed  crazed,  but  his  mind  was  manifestly  disordered.  I 
never  pass  by  such  a  person.  I  have  a  veneration, 
equal  to  that  of  the  North  American  Indians,  for  a  dis 
ordered  intellect,  and  I  could  no  more  let  such  a  man 
wander  up  and  down  the  streets  than  I  could  my  own 
flesh  and  blood.  But  I  was  going  to  Jullien's.  My  en 
gagement  was  peremptory.  He  must  go  with  me  be 
fore  I  could  find  him  a  home.  Music  never  harms  such 
persons.  So  I  bade  him  go  with  me,  and  in  a  few  mo 
ments  we  were  walking  up  Broadway  together. 

"  "Which  way  are  you  going  ?"  he  asked. 


310  LATER    YEARS. 

"  I  am  going  to  Jullien's  concert  first,  and  after  that  I 
will  find  you  a  resting-place." 

"  Jullien's  !  Jullien's  !  I  was  there  once.  It  was  in 
Europe,  wasn't  it  ?  yes,  in  France — no,  in  England !" 

"  You  have  been  in  France  and  England  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have  been  a  great  wanderer,  looking  for 
some  place  I  could  rest  in." 

"  And  have  not  found  any  ?" 

"  No,  not  any.     There  is  nothing  that  is  like  home." 

He  did  not  seem  to  know  how  near  he  was  to  quot 
ing  the  ballad  that  every  one  knows  and  loves. 

"  And  what  was  your  home  ?" 

It  was  a  dangerous  question,  for  it  might  excite  him  ; 
but  no,  he  was  used  to  it ;  and  he  gave  me  the  old 
story,  that,  I  doubt  not,  he  has  given  a  thousand  times. 

"It  was  a  great  place, my  home.  It  was  in  a  fine 
old  forest,  with  a  running  brook,  a  shining  lake,  a  noble 
house." 

"  Why,  there  are  a  thousand  such  places  as  that  in 
the  world." 

"  Ay,  but  there  are  none  of  them  like  home." 

The  argument  was  irresistible,  and  I  walked  on  in  si 
lence.  We  entered  Metropolitan  Hall  together.  He 
accompanied  me  willingly,  but  would  by  no  means  con 
sent  to  my  paying  for  his  admission.  On  the  contrary, 
he  produced  a  well-filled  wallet,  and,  with  an  air  that 
showed  clearly  that  in  money  matters  he  was  abun 
dantly  able  to  take  care  of  himself,  he  bought  his  ticket 
and  went  in  with  me. 

We  were  just  in  time  for  the  Katydid  Polka  and  its 


HOME.  311 

exquisite  measures.  Have  you  heard  it?  If  not,  you 
can  not  so  well  appreciate  the  effect  it  produced  on  my 
companion.  The  sounds  of  the  evening  wind,  the  pleas 
ant  walk  under  the  shadows  of  the  trees,  with  the  trem 
bling  moonbeams  falling  through  them,  the  chirrup  of 
the  katydid  and  crickets,  all  so  inspired  the  poor  man 
with  memories  of  old  times,  that  he  covered  up  his  face 
with  his  hands,  and  I  believe  he  wept;  the  strains 
which  to  others  were  so  enlivening  and  joyous,  proving 
to  him  the  very  reverse.  It  was  not  till  the  close  of  the 
concert  that  I  thought  of  asking  him  if  he  had  any 
friends  in  New  York.  "  No,"  said  he,  but  in  such  a 
tone  that  I  doubted  him.  It  rather  jarred,  too,  on  my 
ideas  of  the  man,  to  have  him  tell  me  a  falsehood,  but 
I  pardoned  him  that,  and,  having  seen  the  ladies  safe  in 
the  carriage,  with  Joe  Willis  to  take  care  of  them,  I 
walked  down  Broadway  with  the  stranger.  I  had  made 
up  my  mind  to  take  him  to  the  Prescott  House. 

As  I  reached  the  entrance  to  the  hotel,  a  gentle 
man  hastily  advanced  from  the  office,  and,  seizing  my 
companion  by  the  arm,  expressed  delight  at  his  re 
turn. 

"You  are  acquainted  with  him  ?"  said  I. 

"  He  is  my  father,  sir.     Where  did  you  meet  him  ?" 

"  We  have  been  at  Jullien's  together.  I  am  glad  to 
leave  him  in  safe  hands.  Good-night,  sir,"  said  I,  and 
I  took  the  father's  hand.  He  looked  with  those  same 
haunting  eyes  of  his  into  my  face,  and  said,  "  Ah !  you 
are  going  to  leave  me.  It  is  always  so.  I  am  very 
sorry  you  can't  help  me.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  ; 


312  LATER    YEARS. 

but  I  thought  you  would  take  me  to  some  place  like 
home." 

I  drew  my  cloak  close  around  me,  for  it  was  cold,  as 
I  walked  along"  the  pavement,  with  the  moon  shining 
down  on  the  brick  walls  and  the  ringing  stone,  and  I 
was  absorbed  in  thought.  I  ran  against  a  heavy  gen 
tleman,  who  cursed  me  unmercifully ;  by  the  sound,  I 
thought  I  hurt  him,  and  I  begged  his  pardon  ;  but  it  did 
not  mitigate  his  severity.  I  separated  a  gentleman  from 
a  lady  whose  white-gloved  lingers  lay  delicately  on  his 
sleeve,  by  unpardonably  blundering  directly  between 
them,  instead  of  taking  the  right  or  the  left.  I  begged 
their  pardon  also,  but  it  didn't  seem  to  appease  the  of 
fended  gentleman  a  particle,  who  looked  thunder-clouds 
at  me,  though  the  lady  stood  laughing  as  if  she  would 
fall.  It  was  worth  being  laughed  at,  to  see  such  spark 
ling  eyes.  I  stumbled  over  some  timber,  and  pitched 
myself  against  a  small  boy  with  such  force  as  to  send 
him  flying  across  a  temporary  side-walk  constructed 
over  an  excavated  lot,  and  he  would  have  vanished  into 
the  unknown  depths  of  the  excavation  but  for  a  for 
tunate  catch  that  he  made  at  the  round  timber  guard. 
How  the  boy  howled !  but  some  silver  silenced  the 
howling,  and  inured  to  the  benefit  of  the  pea-nut  woman 
at  the  next  corner,  whither  the  boy  steered  a  straight 
course,  while  I  pursued  my  way  through  less  frequent 
ed  streets.  I  was  thinking  thus  : 

There  are  many  wanderers  like  that  man  on  the  face 
of  the  earth — nay,  in  fact,  we  are  all  very  like  him,  and 
the  few  that  arc  not  like  him  are  the  exceptions.  "We 


HOME.  313 

do  well  to  pity  one  another,  for  we  are  homeless.  It 
is  not  alone  the  memory  of  that  dear  place  in  the  coun 
try,  ever  blessed  in  the  memories  of  boyhood,  and  ever 
more  beautiful,  more  calm,  in  the  long  retiospect  through 
years  of  storm ;  it  is  not  alone  that  the  sea  over  which 
we  look  back  to  the  childhood  from  which  we  set  sail 
is  a  tossing,  tempestuous  sea,  or  that  its  waves  are  green 
arid  very  like  graves — every  one  of  those  hillocks  of 
water  the  graves  of  those  who  have  heretofore  been 
with  us  ;  it  is  not  alone  that  the  sounds  of  those  old 
tunes  have  a  winning  sweetness,  coming  out  of  the  far 
past,  such  as  no  sounds,  no  voices  now  have — it  is  not 
any  nor  all  of  these  things  that  make  men  restless, 
longing,  and  sad,  but  it  is  that  the  prospect  is  no  bet 
ter  for  the  future,  when  they  sit  down  to  look  on  it 
deliberately,  and,  after  all  their  toiling  and  battling  for 
rest  and  repose,  they  are  left  to  my  strange  friend's 
last  words  to  me,  "  I  am  very  sorry :  I  thought  you 
would  take  me  to  some  place  like  home." 

Oh !  friends,  if  you  meet  that  man  in  his  wanderings, 
speak  kindly  to  him.  If  you  meet  any  man,  sane  or  in 
sane,  who  in  this  weary  world  seeketh  rest  somewhere 
and  the  repose  of  home,  for  the  sake  of  all  your  dear 
old  memories,  of  all  your  childhood's  blessed  dreams, 
your  young  glad  plays,  your  dreams  of  rest — for  the 
sake  of  your  hopes  of  home  when  wandering  is  over, 
speak  to  him  kindly,  lest  you  add  one  sadness  to  a  cup 
of  sorrow  wellnigh  overflowing. 

And  one  thing  more.  After  spending  your  dollar 
and  your  evening  at  a  concert,  if  on  the  crowded  pave- 
0 


314  LATER    YEARS. 

ment  you  meet  a  poor  man  asking  food  or  rest,  do  not 
pass  him  by  with  haughty  silence,  as  too  many  do,  but 
ask  him  what  he  wants :  if  food,  give  it  to  him — you 
can  buy  it  any  where ;  if  money,  be  wary  of  him,  but 
do  not  give  him  over  to  the  police  too  hastily ;  if  he 
asks  the  way  to  a  hotel,  ten  to  one  he  is  my  friend : 
take  him  to  the  Prescott  House. 


XL. 

in  Snu      nrt 


November,  18  —  . 

you  believe  that  those  are  the  "bricks  ?" 
We  were  walking  up  Broadway,  and,  when 
near  the  Stuyvesant  Institute,  met  a  gentleman  and 
lady,  the  latter  speaking  in  a  voice  full  of  wonderment, 
which  attracted  our  attention.  "  My  word  for  it,  they 
have  been  in  the  Egyptian  Rooms,  looking  at  the  Is- 
raelitish  manufactures,"  said  Willis.  "  Curious,  is  it 
not,  to  hear  people  in  the  streets  of  New  York  discuss 
ing  the  qualities  of  Pharaoh's  bricks  ?  Let  us  turn  into 
the  Old  World." 

So  we  entered  the  Museum,  and  it  is,  as  you  know, 
like  passing  from  the  present  to  the  far  past.  Instead 
of  meeting  the  crowd  that  you  would  naturally  expect 
to  see  thronging  the  rooms  in  which  the  men  of  four 
thousand  years  ago  stand  revived,  we  found  a  couple 
of  ladies,  and  only  half  a  dozen  students,  gazing  with 
wearied  eyes  into  the  faces  of  the  mummies,  and,  with 
earnest  countenances,  beseeching  some  reply  from  the 
silent  people.  How  profound  the  silence  of  an  Egyp 
tian  mummy  !  It  is  as  if  a  seal  had  been  set  on  the 
silence  of  death  itself,  forbidding  even  the  suggest 
ive  look,  the  speaking  repose,  the  teaching  calmness. 


316  LATER    YEARS. 

It  comes  over  one  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  at  length, 
that  this  statue  was  once  a  man  ;  that  it  once  lived, 
and  loved,  and  suffered,  and  thought,  and  talked,  and 
went  hither  and  thither,  and  at  last  died.  At  first  you 
are  appalled  at  the  idea  ;  then  it  becomes  a  startling 
truth,  and  you  wonder  what  the  thin  lips  would  say  if 
the  seal  were  now  taken  from  them  ;  and  then  come 
thronging  fancies  of  the  long-gone  years,  the  streets  of 
forgotten  cities,  the  chambers  of  forgotten  houses. 
Why,  that  man  knelt  at  Karnak,  fought  with  Shishak, 
died  in  old  Memphis.  Nay,  for  all  these  are  common 
place  thoughts,  that  man  had  affections  like  ours,  and 
in  the  silent  peacefulness  of  his  home,  three  thousand 
years  ago,  he  sat  beside  his  wife,  and  that  arm  was 
around  her,  and  that  lip  pressed  to  her  ruddy,  sunny 
cheek,  and  it  whispered  low  words  of  passionate  fond 
ness  in  the  rare  old  tones  of  a  long-forgotten  but  noble 
language. 

"  Philip,"  said  "Willis,  and  I  sprang  back  so  startled 
as  nearly  to  overthrow  an  Egyptian  girl  that  stood  in 
her  glass  case,  so  wholly  had  I  been  absorbed  in  the 
ideas  that  always  take  possession  of  me  in  those  rooms. 

"  Doctor,"  said  a  lady  at  the  same  moment  to  Dr. 
Abbott,  who  had  been  standing  near  me,  and,  by-the- 
way,  the  lady  was  pretty  and  bright-eyed,  for  all  her 
curious  question,  "  doctor,  do  you  find  them  in  glass 
cases  like  these  ?" 

"  Ahem  !"  said  Willis  ;  "  that  reminds  me  of  Abou 
Simbel." 

And  while  the  doctor,  with  his  usual  politeness,  was 


EGYPT    IN    NEW    YORK.  317 

explaining  to  his  visitor  that  the  glass  case  was  a  mod 
ern  invention,  Willis  strolled  with  me  toward  the  case 
in  which  is  the  splendid  collection  of  signet  rings,  neck 
laces,  and  ornaments ;  and,  leaning  against  the  edge 
of  the  case,  he  proceeded  to  talk  of  his  travels.  I  like 
to  catch  him  in  such  a  mood,  for  it  is  not  often  that  he 
is  willing  to  relate  incidents  of  the  days  when  he  went 
off  to  wander  alone  through  old  countries. 

"  It  was  the  fortieth  day  after  I  left  Cairo.  I  had 
taken  great  care  to  have  a  good  new  boat  and  a  good 
old  crew.  The  latter  were  ten  of  the  finest-looking  and 
laziest  Arabs  that  I  had  seen  in  Egypt,  and  it  took  all 
of  my  dragoman's  time  to  keep  them  awake  and  attend 
ing  to  the  boat. 

"  We  were  approaching  Philae,  and  I  was  seated  on 
top  of  the  cabin,  watching  the  growing  magnificence  of 
the  ruins  of  the  great  frontier  city  of  Upper  Egypt,  when, 
the  men  approached  and  begged  a  feast  in  honor  of  our 
arrival  within  sight  of  Abou  Simbel ;  so  I  gave  them 
wherewithal  to  feast,  and  they  devoured  rice  and  mut 
ton  enough  in  half  an  hour  to  have  fed  forty.  The  con 
sequence  might  be  imagined.  I  was  absorbed  in  my 
gazing,  for  I  had  willingly  allowed  them  to  make  the 
boat  fast  within  seeing  distance  of  the  great  temple  and 
the  colossal  statues  of  Barneses  II.,  and  I  had  forgotten 
to  eat  or  drink,  lying  under  the  awning  which  I  had 
rigged  for  my  own  accommodation,  and  looking  on  the 
relics  of  the  old  glories  that  have  never  been  equaled 
in  later  years,  not  even  on  the  White  Acropolis.  While 
I  mused  the  men  got  the  boat  away  again,  and  evening 


318  LATER    YEARS. 

came  down  with  the  silence  and  solemnity  of  evening 
among  Egyptian  ruins.  After  a  time  the  boat  slowly 
forged  across  the  river,  and  I  raised  my  eyes  higher 
and  higher  as  the  soft  and  beautiful  features  of  the 
Colossi  rose  higher  and  higher  before  me,  till  at  length 
I  stood  up,  and  almost  worshipped  with  the  idolatry  of 
the  old  Egyptians.  I  was  thinking  of  the  sublimity  of 
those  creeds  that  led  men  to  erect  such  temples — of 
the  devotion  to  their  religion  which  extorted  such  ex 
pense,  such  skill,  such  labor,  to.  do  honor  to  their  gods 
—and  a  vision  of  the  old  splendor  of  their  sacrificial 
ceremonies  was  coming  over  me.  The  moon  was  in 
the  sky,  and  the  sunlight  was  quite  gone.  A  calm,  soft, 
twilight-like  night  had  succeeded  the  warm  and  sultry 
day,  and  as  the  last  faint  evening  breeze  carried  us 
under  the  ruins  of  Philae,  I  had  lost  all  thought  of  the 
time  or  the  age,  and  was  an  Egyptian  of  three  thou 
sand  years  ago,  going  homeward  over  the  sacred  river 
to  a  palace  in  the  southern  city,  when — 

"'Is  it  a  mummy?' 

"  Those  were  the  words  I  heard,  and  I  found  myself 
lying  on  the  shore,  wrapped  to  my  neck  in  a  blanket, 
my  face  alone  visible  to  the  mixed  crowd  that  sur 
rounded  me.  On  gathering  my  scattered  senses,  and 
some  information  on  the  subject,  I  found  that  a  flaw 
had  struck  the  high  latteen  sail,  and  thrown  the  boat 
well  over.  She  would  have  weathered  it  had  any  one 
been  looking  out;  but  every  man  of  the  crew  was 
sound  asleep  ;  and  as  she  went  over,  I  had  fallen,  strik 
ing  my  head  on  a  stone  that  lay  on  the  lee  deck,  and 


EGYPT    IN    NEW    YORK.  319 

had  no  sensation  whatever  as  I  went  into  the  water. 
We  were  close  to  the  shore,  and  were  picked  out  rapid 
ly  enough  by  a  number  of  persons  who  had  been  watch 
ing  our  approach,  and  who  proved  to  be  the  crews  of 
two  boats  with  English  travelers  on  board^  I  had  been 
instantly  rolled  in  a  blanket,  and  probably  three  min 
utes  had  not  passed  after  the  accident  when  I  heard 
this  question.  I  can  hardly  say  I  had  been  insensible, 
but  I  had  been  in  a  half  helpless  and  confused  condition. 
A  lady  of  the  party  approached  the  group,  and,  looking 
down  on  the  curious  object  she  saw  lying  there,  asked, 
'  Is  it  a  mummy  7* 

"  It  was  comical  enough,  and  I  opened  my  eyes  on  the 
prettiest  face  imaginable.  You  never  saw  two  blue 
eyes  open  so  wide  as  did  hers  when  she  saw  the  mum 
my  look  at  her,  and  the  moonlight  sparkling  in  his  wet 
orbs.  Then  I  laughed,  and  she  was  scared  wellnigh  to 
death.  '  Bless  me,  John — Joseph — here,  quick  !  here's 
a  live  mummy !'  said  she,  taking  a  sudden  notion  that 
I  was  getting  up  a  joke,  and  mistaking  me  for  one  of 
her  own  party,  but  without  an  idea  of  my  exceedingly 
wet  and  uncomfortable  condition,  and  only  desirous  of 
carrying  on  the  joke.  I  lay  on  the  shore  wrapped  in 
a  black  blanket,  my  head  under  the  shadow  of  a  largo 
rock,  part,  I  believe,  of  the  fallen  head  of  one  of  the 
Colossi,  when  her  friends  approached  at  her  call.  I 
humored  the  joke  too  ;  for,  in  fact,  I  was  not  very  cold, 
and  the  blanket  wrapped  outside  of  my  wet  clothing 
rather  warmed  me.  When  they  came  up,  she  made 
them  stop  a  little  way  off,  and  listen  while  she  should 


320  LATER    YEARS. 

question  me  about  the  days  of  the  glory  of  Abou  Sim- 
bel.  The  groups  of  Arabs,  some  thirty  or  more,  stood 
around  in  the  moonlight,  forming  a  picturesque  scene, 
but  puzzled  to  understand  it.  The  beautiful  girl — for 
she  was  excgedingly  pretty — commenced  her  catechism 
in  an  amusing  tone  of  theatrical  solemnity  : 

"  '  I  command  thee  to  speak  !     Thy  name  ?' 

" '  Joseph.' 

"  « Whew !'  whistled  one  of  the  gentlemen ;  '  I  thought 
he  was  buried  at  Shechem.  Some  mistake  about 
that.' 

"  '  "Where  was  thy  birth-place  ?' 

"'By  the  North  River.' 

" '  That  means  the  Jordan,  I  take  it,'  said  the  same 
voice  in  the  rear. 

"  '  Did  you  know  Abou  Simbel,  in  the  days  of  its  mag 
nificence  ?' 

"'Never  till  this  day.' 

"  *  How  came  you  here  V 

" '  The  waters  of  the  great  river  brought  me.' 

"  '  Came  up  against  the  current,'  muttered  the  com 
mentator. 

"  '  In  whose  reign  did  you  live  V 

"  '  The  younger  Adams.' 

"  *  Whew  !'  again  whistled  the  voice,  that  began  to 
sound  very  familiar  to  me.  '  I  have  heard  of  the  old 
Adam,  but  who  the  deuse  was  the  younger  Adam  ?' 

" '  And  of  any  other  king  V 

"  *  Yes,  many  others*' 

"  '  For  instance  V 


EGYPT    IN    NEW    YORK.  321 

" '  Andrew  Jackson,'  said  I,  in  a  voice  that  certainly 
made  the  old  hero's  name  sound  sufficiently  Egyptian 
to  be  of  the  times  of  Pharaoh  Necho  or  Shishak. 

" '  Ask  him  his  father's  name,'  said  the  gentleman. 
c  Willis'  was  too  brief  and  distinct  to  be  disguised,  and 
I  sprang  to  my  feet  as  I  said  it,  dropping  the  blanket 
and  appearing  in  my  own  wet  garments. 

" '  Joe  Willis,  by  all  that's  lucky  !'  exclaimed  the  ob 
servant  man  who  had  been  making  notes  on  my  re 
marks,  and  who  proved  to  be  our  old  friend  S ,  who 

passed  five  years  in  America.  He  introduced  me  to 
the  astonished  lady,  who  had  supposed  me  all  the  time 
to  be  one  of  their  party,  and  we  made  a  pleasant  even 
ing  of  it  in  the  ruins  of  Philae.J 

"  I  wonder  where  that  mummied  girl  came  from  in 
the  case  yonder.  She  was  daughter  of  a  prince  and 
priest.  Let  us  ask  Doctor  Abbott  where  she  was  dug  up ." 

"Ask  herself,  Joe.  The  doctor  has  gone,  and  you 
must  question  the  mummy." 

"  She  speaks  :  now  listen,  and  I  will  interpret.  She 
was  born  in  the  city  of  the  Sun.  She  was  the  daugh 
ter  of  a  princely  house,  of  a  royal  line.  She  was  beau 
tiful,  exceedingly  beautiful,  and  the  lips  of  nobles  did 
her  honor.  But  she  gave  no  heed  to  their  praise,  though 
she  might  well  have  been  proud  of  such  homage,  for 
the  nobles  of  Egypt  were  the  lords  of  the  world.  She 
was  tall  and  slender.  Look  at  her,  as  she  stands  there 
now,  in  the  silent  gracefulness  of  death,  and  you  may 
judge  of  her  sylph-like  form,  her  light  and  dreamy 
walk,  her  gleaming  footsteps.  Her  sunny  brow  had 
02 


322  LATER    YEARS. 

never  known  a  cloud,  and  her  dark,  radiant  eyes  shone 
with  the  light  of  pure  and  hopeful  girlhood. 

"  The  first  change  in  her  life  occurred  thus.  At  a 
feast  in  the  royal  palace,  where,  among  all  the  beauti 
ful,  she  shone  most  beautiful,  she  saw  a  stranger  seated 
by  the  side  of  the  first  lord  of  Egypt.  He  was  a  young 
and  graceful  man,  with  a  soft,  dark  eye,  and  a  radiant 
look,  that  rested  with  unspeakable  affection  on  the  face 
of  the  noble  by  whom  he  was  seated.  Sometimes  they 
spoke  to  each  other,  and  then  in  low,  earnest  tones,  but 
in  a  musical  language  that  she  did  not  understand, 
though  its  soft  flow  was  like  the  river  of  the  desert,  and 
she  knew  that  it  was  the  language  of  Canaan.  Anon 
an  old  man  approached  them,  clad  in  simple  but  rich 
robes,  over  which  his  long  white  locks  flowed  in  silvery 
splendor,  and  followed  by  a  group  of  stalwart  men,  un 
like  the  nobles  of  Egypt  in  dress  or  mien,  but  far  more 
stately  in  appearance.  Every  one  of  them  stood  like  a 
king,  and  the  father  of  a  kingly  line.  Their  clothes  were 
of  strange  fashion,  and  their  language  unknown.  But 
it  was  whispered  through  the  palace  rooms  that  these 
were  the  strangers  whom  the  king  had  invited  to  reside 
in  his  palace,  the  brothers  of  the  foreign  but  universally- 
beloved  vice-regent,  and  then  she  saw  the  young  men 
descend  from  their  throne,  and  bow  their  heads  to  the 
blessing  of  the  patriarch,  and  the  old  man  lifted  his  tall 
and  stately  form  to  its  utmost  height,  and  gazed  with 
a  monarch's  look  through  the  magnificent  palace,  and 
over  the  crowd  of  princes  and  nobles,  of  whom  his 
son  was  chief,  and  turned  aad  blessed  him,  laying  his 


EGYPT    IN    NEW    YORK.  323 

white  hand  on  his  head,  and  passed  on  through  the 
crowd,  that  fell  back  to  the  right  and  left  before  him, 
and  disappeared  from  her  view  as  she  looked  back  at 
the  face  of  the  younger  brother. 

"  He  was  one  to  love.  His  countenance  had  all  the 
soft  and  matchless  beauty  of  his  mother's  face,  and  yet 
there  was  the  pride  of  the  chosen  line  of  God  in  his 
walk  and  form.  He  was  strangely  like  his  noble  broth 
er,  too,  for  they  were  both  like  their  mother.  She  kept 
near  them  all  the  night,  and  when  in  her  own  palace, 
surrounded  by  her  maidens,  she  was  haunted  by  the 
same  eyes. 

"  It  were  vain  to  tell  of  the  growth  of  love  in  her 
young  heart.  Women,  four  thousand  years  ago,  were 
much  the  same  as  now,  and  human  hearts  have  had  all 
the  same  passions  and  emotions  from  the  days  of  Cain 
and  Abel  to  these.  There  were  the  same  concealments, 
the  same  struggles,  the  same  unwillingness  to  confess  it 
to  herself — the  same  doubts,  hopes,  and  despairs  that 
alternate  in  the  breast  of  gentle  womanhood  now.  She 
had  frequent  opportunity  of  seeing  him  at  a  distance, 
as  he  rode  through  the  streets  of  the  great  city,  by  the 
side  of  his  brother ;  and  sometimes  they  met  at  feasts, 
and  sometimes  in  the  temples  of  the  gods  ;  and  at 
length,  when  her  cheek  had  grown  pale,  and  her  eye 
had  lost  its  lustre,  and  her  lip  had  ceased  its  musical 
laughter  and  songs,  she  was  kneeling  one  day  in  the 
Temple  of  Hor,  when,  by  a  sudden  thrill,  she  knew  that 
he  was  approaching,  and  she  saw  a  train  sweeping  up 
the  long  avenue,  and  Pharaoh,  the  chief  priest,  with  his 


324  LATER    YEARS. 

mightiest  princes,  came  to  worship.  But  Joseph  and 
Benjamin  left  the  throng,  and,  as  the  train  passed  on, 
they  knelt  near  her,  with  their  faces  toward  the  east, 
and  she  knew  by  their  gestures,  and  their  looks  and 
tones,  that  they  were  worshipping  the  God  of  their  fa 
thers,  with  their  longing  eyes  toward  the  promised  land. 
"When  Benjamin  turned  his  eyes  from  their  far  gaze  to 
ward  the  land  of  Abraham,  he  met  the  beautiful  eyes 
of  the  Egyptian  girl,  whom  he  had  seen  in  other  places, 
and  forthwith  his  heart  went  out  to  her. 

"  So  they  loved  each  other,  and  before  another  month 
was  over,  Joseph  had  demanded  her  of  the  king,  and 
she  was  given,  and  that  form  was  pressed  in  the  arms 
of  Benjamin.  You  smile.  Doubt  it,  if  you  dare  ;  dis 
prove  it,  if  you  can.  She  was  the  sister  of  Joseph,  the 
cousin  of  Asenath,  the  wife  of  Benjamin.  She  was  the 
beloved  child  of  Jacob,  the  darling  of  stalwart  Judah, 
the  pride  of  the  sedate  Reuben,  the  pet  of  Simeon,  and 
Levi,  and  Zebulon,  and  Gad,  a  second  dove-eyed  Leah ! 
I  can  imagine  their  home  in  the  lower  country,  where 
the  land  was  luxuriant  with  palms  and  vines.  I  can 
imagine  the  sons  of  Jacob  growing  old,  and  thinking 
bitterly  of  death  in  Egypt,  and  burial  there.  But  she 
did  not  grow  old  with  them.  She  died  in  her  young, 
glad  beauty.  She  went  out  of  the  arms  of  Benjamin 
even  when  he  was  but  just  learning  how  dear  she  was. 
Old  Jacob  wept  for  her,  and  remembered  Rachel.  Jo 
seph,  with  strong  faith,  held  up  the  sinking  heart  of 
Benjamin ;  and  Judah,  stern  but  noble,  stood  beside  her, 
and  spoke  the  promises  in  which  she  had  now  a  part. 


EGYPT    IN    NEW    YORK.  325 

"  It  was  as  hard  to  die  then  as  now.  The  world  was 
just  as  beautiful,  and  love  was  just  as  strong.  And 
when  at  length  she  passed  away — away  from  the  land 
of  the  Pyramids  and  the  Sphinx  into  the  presence  of 
her  new  fathers — of  Isaac  and  Abraham,  she  left  a  des 
olate  home  on  the  bank  of  the  great  river,  and  a  wan 
derer  that  had  no  peace  till  he  slept  with  the  dead  of 
Egypt,  and  was  at  rest  with  her  in  the  arms  of  his  fa 
thers." 

"  I  say,  Philip,  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  that 
other  mummy,  in  the  corner  yonder,  was  Judah  or  Reu 
ben.  It  is  hardly  tall  enough  for  Judah.  Perhaps  it 
is  Benjamin.  Who  knows?" 

"Perhaps  it  is  so.  But  as  to  the  woman,  doesn't  it 
strike  you  that  Benjamin  was  married  before  he  came 
into  Egypt,  and  brought  some  sons  down  with  him  ?" 

"  Well,  what  of  that  ?  What  was  to  prevent  his  hav 
ing  as  many  wives  as  his  father  had?" 

"Ah!  yes.  But — don't  you  think  it  rather — ah — 
spoils  the  romance  of  the  thing,  Joseph?" 

"Chacun  a  son  gout." 

I'have  written  what  I  have  written.  It  was  the  con 
versation  of  two  dreamers  in  the  Egyptian  Museum ; 
but  it  was  here  in  New  York,  in  the  nineteenth  centu 
ry,  and  we  were  surrounded  by  objects  that  are  indis 
putably  from  three  to  four  thousand  years  old,  and  cer 
tainly  we  might  be  pardoned  for  dreaming. 


XLI. 

a  JUmittiamn  nf  Wxll  Itrnt 

New  York,  November,  18 — . 

IT  was  a  cool,  clear  evening  as  Willis  and  myself 
drove  into  the   city  from  Long  Island.     We  had 
been  following  the  body  of  an  old  friend  to  its  last 
resting-place  in  one  of  the  great  cemeteries. 

We  use  common  phrases  without  thinking  of  them. 
I  said  "  to  its  last  resting-place,"  because  that  is  a  sy 
nonymous  word  with  grave  in  modern  usage,  not  because 
any  one  believes  that  the  cemeteries  near  New  York 
are  to  remain  undisturbed  forever,  or  that  their  only 
inhabitants  are  to  be  the  silent  sleepers.  Men  talk 
already  of  avenues  through  Greenwood,  and  dare  to 
hint  the  idea  of  waking  up  those  over  whom  hardly  yet 
the  earth  has  been  thrown,  and  driving  them  elsewhere 
to  seek  more  safe  and  sure  repose  ;  for  the  march  of 
the  age  heeds  nothing — not  even  the  solemn  immobility 
of  death,  but  presses  on  over  all  the  better  feelings  of 
nature,  over  affection,  religion — even  over  the  grave ! 
Something  of  this  sort  Joe  Willis  was  saying  as  we 
turned  down  Montague  Street  in  Brooklyn.  It  was 
moonlight ;  in  fact,  the  last  rays  of  daylight  were  hard 
ly  gone,  and  at  no  hour  does  that  splendid  building, 
the  church  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  appear  more  beautiful. 


A    REMINISCENCE    OF    WALL    STREET.  327 

We  paused  as  we  approached  it,  and  admired  the  effect 
of  the  moonlight  on  the  east,  and  the  last  rays  of  day 
light  on  the  west,  contrasting  forcibly  with  the  deep 
shadows  and  recesses.  It  was  as  still  as  midnight,  and 
the  moonshine  fell  on  the  pavement,  and  on  the  walls 
of  the  marble  and  stone  houses,  so  that,  except  for  a 
few  lights  in  distant  windows,  one  might  have  thought 
it  a  deserted  city,  and  our  voices,  when  we  spoke,  rang, 
and  might  well  have  been  heard  a  whole  block  away. 

In  this  respect  Brooklyn  differs  very  much  from  New 
York.  Somehow  there  is  always  a  sound,  a  hum,  or, 
rather,  a  low  murmur  hanging  over  New  York,  that 
never  ceases,  except  for  a  little  while  before  daybreak 
in  the  morning.  It  is  the  great  mass  of  the  uttered 
thoughts  and  feelings  of  half  a  million  people  sounding 
above  them.  It  is  the  voice  of  the  revel,  the  moan  of 
the  hospital,  the  cry  of  the  drunken  brawl,  the  sigh  of 
the  poor  sewing-woman,  the  laughter  of  the  child,  the 
death-gasp  of  the  old  man,  the  whisper  of  the  lover, 
the  oath  of  the  debauchee,  and  a  thousand — nay,  half 
a  million  other  sounds  of  human  emotion,  that  unite  to 
make  up  this  sound  that  you  may  hear  forever  going 
up  over  the  great  city. 

In  the  calm  moonlight  we  drove  on  down  Montague 
Street  to  the  Wall  Street  Ferry,  and,  while  waiting  for 
the  boat,  and  while  crossing  the  river,  Willis  related  a 
story  of  the  gentleman  whom  we  had  just  buried,  that 
was  brought  to  mind  by  our  approach  to  the  street,  and 
which  is  somewhat  interesting  as  a  reminiscence  of  the 
East  River  and  Wall  Street.  Willis  related  it  as  a  per- 


328  LATER    YEARS. 

sonal  recollection  of  our  friend,  given  to  him  some  years 
ago.  "  He  used  to  tell  the  story  somewhat  in  this  way," 
said  Willis,  throwing  himself  back  in  the  carnage,  and 
talking  precisely  as  if  he  were  the  relator  of  his  own 
experience. 

"  My  earliest  patron  and  friend  was  Mr.  S ,  who 

was  the  founder  of  my  fortunes  ;  and,  as  I  grew  older, 
he  retired  from  business,  leaving  me  to  take  his  place 
in  Wall  Street,  while  he  passed  the  remainder  of  his 
life  quietly  at  his  old  place  down  the  island.  He  de 
pended  on  me  for  advice  as  much  as  I  had  formerly  de 
pended  on  him.  I  was  in  the  Western  Country,  on  a 
mad  expedition  after  land,  which  I  can't  be  too  thankful 
proved  a  failure.  A  letter  reached  me  at ,  say 
ing  that  the  old  man,  whose  life  had  been  sufficiently 
stormy,  was  at  length  in  a  way  to  find  repose.  But  he 
desired  to  see  me,  and  with  no  less  anxiety  than  I  to 
look  once  again  on  his  kind  face.  To  me,  who  have 
had  few  near  relatives,  the  friends  of  my  youth  were 
inexpressibly  dear,  and  I  hastened  homeward,  as  I 
would  have  done  to  the  death-bed  of  a  father.  It  was 
a  cold,  bitter  night  in  December  that  I  reached  the  city. 
It  was  midnight.  The  ferry-boats  had  all  ceased  their 
trips.  The  ice  was  running  rapidly.  I  must  cross,  or 
wait  till  morning,  and  I  could  not  think  of  that ;  so  I 
hired  a  boatman  with  a  heavy  bribe,  and  the  promise 
of  more  if  we  crossed  successfully  within  an  hour,  and 
we  left  the  shore.  It  was  dark  and  cold.  The  tide 
was  not  as  furious  in  the  East  River  as  now,  for  the 
piers  were  then  fewer,  and  not  extended  into  the  chan- 


A    REMINISCENCE    OF    WALL    STREET.  329 

nel ;  but  the  northwest  wind  added  a  heavy  sea  to  the 
danger  of  the  night,  and,  taking  all  things  together,  the 
prospect  was  poor.  But  I  had  been  in  rough  seas  and 
running  ice  before,  and,  taking  an  oar,  I  pulled  a  stroke 
that  evidently  surprised  my  Whitehall  friend,  and  add 
ed  to  his  hopes  of  a  successful  voyage. 

"  It  was  one  o'clock  when  we  left  the  shore.  At  half 
past  three  we  were  under  the  lee  of  Governor's  Island, 
coming  up  the  Buttermilk  Channel  on  the  return  of  the 
flood.  At  four  o'clock  we  were  making  the  shore  near 
the  old  distillery,  when  a  cake  of  ice  came  in  on  the 
sea,  and  closed  around  our  egg-shell  of  a  boat,  and  it 
cracked  and  crushed  precisely  as  you  have  crushed  an 
almond  in  the  nut-cracker.  Unfortunately,  there  was 
no  one  to  pick  the  valuable  contents  out  of  the  broken 
shell;  and  if  we  had  not  been  remarkably  quick,  and 
the  ice  remarkably  strong,  I  am  not  altogether  certain 
that  I  should  have  been  here  to-day.  On  the  contrary, 
I  think  I  might  have  gone  out  to  sea  on  the  next  ebb 
tide,  under  water  instead  of  above  it  on  a  cake  of  ice,  as 
now  seemed  probable.  By  this  time  I  was  cold,  as 
you  may  imagine.  Rowing  was  out  of  the  question, 
and  I  had  been  forced  to  beat  rny  hands  until  they  were 
sore,  in  vain  efforts  to  keep  up  some  sort  of  warmth  in 
my  numb  fingers.  And  now,  on  this  cake  of  ice,  I  must 
keep  still,  motionless,  or  I  should  go  through ;  so  I  sat 
down,  holding  the  oar,  which  had  never  left  my  grasp, 
and  looked  about  for  my  boatman.  He  was  missing. 
A  shout  brought  back  a  reply.  The  ice  had  parted, 
and  we  had  parted  company,  and  we  did  not  meet 


330  LATER    YEARS. 

again  till  some  weeks  afterward.  We  had  no  time  or 
inclination  to  exchange  parting  salutations  or  good 
•wishes.  In  truth,  I  had  no  good  wishes  for  him.  I 
reserved  them  all  for  myself.  I  was  thinking  of  no  one 
else,  and  his  fate  formed  no  part  of  my  apprehensions. 
Let  me  tell  you  that  freezing  to  death  is  a  painful  affair, 
after  all.  It  has  none  of  the  delicious,  sleepy  quiet 
aTDout  it  that  some  persons  imagine.  It  is  no  lotus- 
eating  death,  passing  away  into  dreamy  listlessness,  and 
then  into  profound  slumber. 

"  It  is  worse  than  nightmare  a  thousand-fold.  It  is 
the  struggle  of  a  prisoner  in  an  iron  cell,  a  fierce,  furi 
ous  struggle,  a  mad  struggle,  a  terrible  struggle.  I 
felt  the  grasp  of  death,  cold,  tightening,  chilling,  dead 
ening,  on  wrist  and  ankle,  on  neck  and  waist,  on  brain 
and  heart.  I  sat  motionless,  and  fought  as  no  man 
ever  dreamed  of  battling  except  in  just  such  a  case ; 
but  of  what  avail  is  it  to  resist  when  the  weight  of  a 
world  is  pressing  you  steadily  down  ?  It  was  just  that 
feeling.  I  saw  a  star  over  me,  and  it  seemed  to  come 
down  to  me,  and  to  grow  larger  and  larger,  and  the 
silver  point  became  a  ball,  a  globe,  a  sphere,  a  world, 
hiding  every  thing  else  ;  and  all  I  could  see  was  that 
one  great  gleam  of  starlight  silvering  my  eyeballs  over, 
and  ten  thousand  sharp  pains  darted  through  every 
part  of  me,  and  I  fancied  I  shrieked  aloud,  a  lonesome 
cry  that  might  startle  the  gulls  in  the  harbor  from  their 
rest  on  the  floating  ice,  and  a  momentary,  flashing 
thought  of  the  startled  sea-bird  rising  on  his  wings  was 
in  my  mind,  and  then  a  blackness  of  indescribable  ago- 


A   REMINISCENCE    OF    WALL    STREET.  331 

ny,  ending  in  insensibility,  took  possession  of  me.  I 
was  frozen  to  death. 

"  My  next  sensations  were  the  thrilling  pains  of  re 
covery,  sharp,  shooting,  piercing,  stabbing,  twisting — 
in  fact,  every  sort  of  pain  conceivable.  I  was  surprised 
to  find  myself  alive.  This  was  my  first  intelligible 
thought,  for  I  believe  I  had  known  that  I  was  frozen ; 
and  having  deliberately  given  up  after  a  struggle,  I  was 
rather  astonished  at  finding  myself  likely  to  thaw  out, 
after  all.  But  I  had  fallen  into  good  hands.  I  had 
gone  ashore  below  Red  Hook,  and  been  picked  up  by 
some  scamps,  who  cleaned  out  my  pockets,  and  took 
my  coat  and  the  chief  part  of  my  clothing,  for  I  cer 
tainly  did  not  seem  to  need  any  of  it.  But  a  better 
specimen  of  humanity  followed  them  and  took  me  to 

his  house,  where  Dr. found  me  and  resuscitated 

me.  His  attention  was  unwearying,  and  I  believe  he 
saved  my  life  a  dozen  times  that  day.  The  next  I  was 
away.  In  spite  of  his  earnest  remonstrances,  I  was  on 
horseback  at  an  early  hour,  and  was  down  the  island 

at  the  old  residence  of  Mr.  S by  evening.  But  I 

was  too  late.  My  old  friend  had  gone  away  when  I 
reached  there,  away  by  that  dark  road  which  I  had 
myself  been  traveling.  But  he  was  in  advance  of  me, 
and  I  knew  it  not.  And  are  we  not  all  traveling  that 
same  road,  close  on  each  other's  footsteps  ? 

"  It  was  dust  that  lay  there  !  dust,  and  nothing  more. 
It  did  not  welcome  me  to  the  old  place.  It  did  not 
reach  out  the  old  familiar  grasp.  It  did  not  speak  to 
me,  nor  shout  the  ever-cheerful  words  of  greeting.  It 


332  LATER    YEARS. 

did  not  smile,  nor  look  at  me.  So  that  was  death !  And 
on  the  table  lay  a  note  directed  to  me,  and  I  opened  it, 
and  read  his  last  words  for  me,  and  looked  up  from 
time  to  time  as  I  read  aloud,  to  see  if  the  dust  gave  to 
ken  of  assent,  "but  the  dust  was  as  silent  as  ever,  and 
did  not  say  yea  or  nay.  The  old  doctor  had  written 
down,  at  his  dictation,  these  last  directions  for  me.  He 
knew  I  would  come  and  read  them  before  they  buried 
him.  I  read  them,  and  I  said  aloud,  '  I  will  do  it  all!' 
and  again  I  looked  toward  the  dust ;  but  it  lay  in  se 
rene  silence,  nor  assented  nor  disapproved,  and  so  I  per 
ceived  the  beauty  and  the  blessedness  of  that  perfect 
trust  and  confidence,  both  for  this  world  and  the  other, 
in  which  my  old  friend  had  died. 

"  He  was  to  be  taken  to  the  great  city  and  buried 
there ;  and  I  prepared  all,  and  we  went  with  him  to 
Brooklyn.  It  was  a  long,  slow  procession.  One  by 
one  the  wagons  dropped  off,  by  side-roads  or  at  cross 
ings,  or  turned  back  on  their  return  track,  and  the 
hearse  and  my  carriage  reached  the  ferry  alone.  It 
was  again  evening,  but  not  so  late  as  when  I  last  ap 
proached  the  river.  The  ferry-boats  were  crossing, 
though  the  ice  embarrassed  them  ;  and,  instead  of  land 
ing  us  at  the  usual  place,  we  were  obliged  to  leave  the 
boat  at  one  of  the  long  piers  at  the  foot  of  Wall  Street. 
It  was  a  cold,  starry  night,  and  as  we  went  up  the  street, 
the  tread  of  our  horses'  hoofs  rang  in  the  clear. air.  It 
was  a  strange  hour  to  be  in  the  street,  and  a  strange 
duty  to  be  transacting  there  ;  but  I  was  glad  that  it  was 
just  so.  I  was  glad  to  go  with  the  dust  through  the 


A   REMINISCENCE    OF    WALL    STREET.  333 

scenes  where  it  had  once  been  living.  There  was  a 
terrible  significance  in  the  sound  of  the  hearse  wheels 
rattling  through  the  lonesome  street.  I  remembered 
one  morning,  when  I  had  accompanied  him  in  his  car 
riage  to  his  office,  when  he  was  in  active  business, 
when  he  was  known  and  honored  on  'Change,  and  I 
contrasted  that  hour  with  this.  Then  the  crowded 
pavement,  the  swift  rush  of  business,  the  anxious  coun 
tenances  of  the  passers,  the  quick  and  hasty  greeting 
and  parting,  all  indicated  the  keenness  with  which  men 
followed  their  different  vocations,  and  the  busy  earnest 
ness  of  each  man's  life.  But  a  change  was  here.  The 
etreet  was  deserted.  The  lonesome  sidewalk  rang  to 
the  footsteps  of  a  solitary  watchman,  keeping  guard 
over — what  ?  I  thought  of  the  heaps  of  gold  lying  in 
vaults,  useless  masses,  represented  in  the  street  during 
the  daytime  by  flying  bits  of  paper,  the  gold  and  silver 
itself  lying  motionless,  while  this  soul  of  gold — credit — 
was  doing  its  business  for  it.  And  I  thought  of  the 
heap  of  dust  in  the  coffin  before  me,  and  I  compared 
its  value  with  the  treasure.  But  yesterday,  and  it  was 
worth  shining  heaps.  But  yesterday,  and  a  wave  of 
that  now  nerveless  hand  was  sufficient  to  transfer  a 
million.  Why  so  changed  ?  I  can  take  that  hand  in 
mine  and  guide  it  across  the  paper.  I  could  mark  with 
those  fingers  the  same  lines,  the  same  figures,  and  why 
would  not  that  suffice  to-morrow  in  the  street?  "Why 
would  not  that  mark  be  as  omnipotent  as  of  old  ?  I 
tell  you,  Willis,  I  never  felt  it  so  difficult  to  understand 
what  made  the  difference  between  life  and  death  as  I 


334  LATER    YEARS. 

did  that  night,  following  the  body  of  my  old  friend 
through  Wall  Street." 

As  Joe  finished  his  friend's  story,  we  were  at  the 
foot  of  the  street,  and  drove  off  from  the  ferry-boat  and 
up  to  Broadway, 


XLIL 

$  jf  i   <0  U   33  n  tt  B  *. 

TO  some  men,  the  recollection  of  youth,  the  memo 
ries  which  bring  to  life  dead  and  buried  forms  and 
thoughts,  possess  no  beauty  nor  attractiveness.  Such 
men  ridicule  such  memories  as  sentiment,  and  perhaps 
it  is  well  that  such  persons  exist.  If  all  prized  the 
memorials  of  the  past  alike,  possibly  we  might  not 
have  so  keen  a  love  for  them,  who,  in  our  love,  have  to 
contend  with  opposition,  ridicule,  or  scorn.  To  those, 
a  volume  made  up  of  the  incidents  of  daily  life,  the 
commonplace  occurrences  of  travel  and  of  home,  the 
affections  that  shine  here  and  there,  the  gleams  of  joy 
that  break  out  of  the  clouds  of  life,  and  the  clouds 
themselves  that  gather  sometimes  so  darkly,  a  volume 
of  this  sort  has  no  interest ;  but  the  blessedness  and 
beauty  of  memory  we  know,  who  live  among  the  affec 
tions.  That  man  who,  in  the  days  of  youth,  when  all 
was  bright,  all  flourished  fairly  and  pleasantly,  laid 
down  his  hopes  in  some  dark  place,  and  has  plodded 
on  ever  since  with  slow,  measured,  weary  footsteps — 
that  man  who,  in  other  days,  had  anticipations  of 
wealth  that  were  destroyed,  hopes  of  fortune  that  fail 
ed,  ambition  for  power  that  was  dashed,  love  for  some 
gentle  humanity  that  perished  —  any  or  all  of  these, 


336  LATER    YEARS. 

must  have  led  a  life  of  bitter  struggles,  a  life  of  hard 
labor,  if  he  has  succeeded  in  crushing  out  of  his  soul 
all  love  for  the  memory  of  his  brighter  days.  Few 
such  men  do  not  sometimes,  in  still  and  idle  moments, 
find  themselves  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  the  familiar 
scenes  and  employments  of  the  past,  and,  though  their 
years  be  counted  now  by  scores,  their  hearts,  for  the 
moment,  fail  to  count  them  even  by  tens.  That  man 
who  remembers  nothing  pleasant  of  his  youth  is  not  to 
be  envied.  It  was  a  merciful,  a  glorious  part  of  God's 
purpose,  in  creating  our  race,  to  provide  that  we  should 
all  be  children  before  we  were  men  or  even  women. 

Precious  and  very  beautiful  is  the  memory  of  Mar 
tha  Long,  erewhile  daughter  of  Stephen  Long,  farmer  in 
the  up-country,  and  now  an  angel.  She  was  born  to  a 
pleasant  home,  and  its  flowers  and  hills,  among  which 
her  infant  years  were  passed,  left  their  impressions  of 
beauty,  firmness,  and  greatness  on  her  soul.  Even  in 
childhood,  standing  on  the  porch  of  the  old  house,  and 
looking  out  at  the  hills  around  the  valley  which  formed 
the  horizon  of  her  world  of  thoughts  and  dreams,  she 
would  speak,  in  the  simple  utterance  of  childish  lips, 
words  and  truths  that  were  blessed  to  hear,  and  ever 
to  be  remembered. 

Are  such  gentle  children  made  of  dust  ?  Is  the  rec 
ord  true  of  them  also  ?  If  of  dust  at  all,  one  could  have 
fancied  that  child  formed  of  the  brilliancy  that  angel 
knees  had  worn  from  the  golden  floors  of  Paradise  in 
kneeling  there  to  pray,  so  radiant,  so  beloved  was  she. 

Childhood,  with  her,  was  a  long  dream  of  perfect  joy. 


THE    OLD    HOUSE.  337 

No  shade  ever  crossed  her  forehead,  no  tear  ever  sul 
lied  the  brilliancy  of  her  cheek,  no  thought  of  evil  ever 
darkened  the  light,  verily  like  the  light  of  heaven,  which 
poured  in  a  flood  from  the  depth  of  her  dark  blue  eye. 
Gazing  into  that  eye  when  she  was  but  ten,  you  were 
lost  in  the  unfathomable  beauty,  the  deep  ocean  of 
thought  and  feeling,  the  world  of  spirits  and  spiritual 
things  that  filled  and  glorified  it. 

The  river  farm  was  one  of  the  finest  in  the  county, 
and  the  Long  family  had  passed  it  down  from  father  to 
gon  through  so  many  generations  that  the  children  of  the 
family  might  have  been  said  to  be  born  to  its  beauty, 
and  to  have  an  innate  resemblance  to  it  and  love  for 
it.  Stephen,  the  father  of  Martha,  was  an  old  man 
when  his  only  child  was  born.  He  had  lived  alone 
for  more  than  forty  years  on  the  farm,  and  then  mar 
ried  the  daughter  of  a  neighbor,  a  child  to  his  years,  but 
a  faithful  and  earnest  wife  so  long  as  it  was  the  will 
of  God  that  she  should  live  with  him.  This  one  child 
of  their  union  was  the  idol  of  their  house  ;  nor  was  she 
unknown  in  other  houses ;  for  in  the  country  no  one  can 
claim  or  monopolize  any  beauty,  but  all  the  parish 
claims  a  share  in  it ;  and  all  the  parish  and  all  the  coun 
try  claimed  a  share  in  the  love  of  Martha  Long,  and 
she  was  the  praise  of  the  country  all  around  as  she 
grew  into  more  perfect  beauty,  and  more  mature  and 
winning  loveliness. 

At  church  on  a  Sunday  morning  she  with  difficulty 
passed  the  church  door,  so  eager  were  all  to  see  her; 
and  rude  and  rough  as  were  those  who  occupied  the 
P 


338  LATER    YEARS. 

pew  immediately  adjoining  her  father's,  1  have  seen 
them  silent,  and  with  closed  books,  while  the  morning 
psalm  was  sung,  and  all  their  eyes  fixed  intently  on  the 
child,  whose  infant  voice,  as  if  already  learning  the  mel 
ody  of  another  and  a  better  choir,  soared  away  above 
the  others  in  an  untutored  strain  of  surpassing  glory. 

I  hav^described  her  at  ten.  At  seventeen  her  beau 
ty  had  ripened  into  magnificence,  and  then  it  perished. 

For  years  Willis  and  myself  had  not  been  at  the  Old 
House.  On  our  last  visit  we  had  passed  an  afternoon 
on  the  river  farm  with  Stephen  Long,  shooting  quail 
over  his  corn  and  stubble  fields,  and  in  the  evening 
had  eaten  at  his  table,  and,  like  all  others,  I  had  been 
won  by  the  exquisite  beauty  of  his  daughter,  then  four 
teen. 

It  was  a  pleasant  moonlight  evening.  I  was  sitting 
in  my  library,  pondering,  as  I  well  remember,  over  a 
book  which  I  had  that  day  found  in  an  auction-store — 
a  folio  of  the  year  1475,  being  none  other  than  the 
Tracts  of  Bartholomew  Cepolla  on  Rustic  and  Urban 
Servitudes ;  and  while  I  was  thus  engaged,  my  mind 
half  stupefied  with  the  antiquity  which  surrounded  and 
enveloped  me,  suddenly  entered  Joe  Willis,  with  that 
stern,  calm  face  that  I  knew  well  betokened  some 
more  than  ordinary  occurrence. 

"  Come  with  me,  Philip  !" 

I  obeyed  unhesitatingly.  When  would  I  not  obey 
him,  especially  if  he  spoke  in  that  voice  ?  It  was  in 
just  that  tone  he  summoned  me  to  the  large  room  the 
morning  we  buried  the  beloved  one  :  it  was  in  just 


THE    OLD    HOUSE.  339 

that  tone  he  called  me  when  the  bearers  were  ready  to 
carry  out  the  old  judge  from  his  old  hall ;  it  was  in 
just  that  tone  he  called  me  when  Lucy's  youngest,  her 
boy  of  six  springs,  was  to  be  carried  to  lie  under  the 
violets. 

I  followed  him,  seizing  only  my  hat  as  I  passed 
through  the  entry,  and  we  walked  swiftly  down  the 
city  street,  heedless  of  the  crowd  of  pedestrians,  and 
crossed  it,  heedless  of  the  crowd  of  carriages  conveying 
home  their  loads  of  gayety  from  theatre  and  Opera,  and, 
turning  swiftly  down  a  dark,  narrow  passage,  paused 
before  a  house,  which  looked  as  if  it  might  once  have 
been  the  habitation  of  human  beings,  but  was  now 
hardly  fit  to  shelter  ghosts,  who  most  haunt  half-fallen 
tenements.  It  had  been  a  two-story  house,  but  the 
roof  was  broken  in  the  centre,  and  fallen  in  so  much 
that  the  second  story  appeared  utterly  uninhabitable 
by  any  one,  and,  as  I  looked  up  in  the  dim  light  of  a 
street-lamp  flickering  in  the  wind,  which  was  some 
what  fresh  and  chilly,  and  saw  the  front  of  the  build 
ing,  I  hesitated  for  a  moment  before  following  Joe  into 
the  dark  passage-way,  which  he  had  entered  as  if  he 
knew  it. 

"  Come  on,  Philip  !" 

The  voice  was  the  same  stern,  deep  voice,  and  I 
again  obeyed. 

We  entered,  and  the  floor  sank  under  our  steps  be 
fore  we  reached  a  creaking,  shaking  stair-case,  which 
Joe  ascended,  and  on  which  I  followed  his  footsteps  by 
sound  and  not  by  sight.  At  the  landing  he  paused,  as 


340  LATER    YEARS. 

if  groping  about  with  his  hand  for  a  moment,  and  then 
stepped  forward  a  few  paces,  and  I  followed  him  into  a 
room,  or  what  had  once  been  a  room,  now  half  open  to 
the  stars,  more  than  one  of  which  shone  down  through 
the  broken  roof,  that  afforded  no  shelter  to  one  half  of 
the  chamber.  In  the  other  corner,  where  no  light,  ex 
cept  that  of  Sirius,  the  bright  star  low  down  in  the  sky, 
penetrated,  but  which  that  faint  weird  light  failed  to 
illuminate,  lay  something,  I  could  not  tell  what,  but  a 
sense  of  stillness,  a  thought  of  calm,  an  indescribable 
feeling  of  solemnity  seemed  to  be  telling  me  that  what 
lay  there  once  had  life. 

Willis  was  silent  still,  but,  turning  swiftly  round  the 
room,  and  finding  no  living  occupant,  seemed  impatient, 
and  at  the  instant  a  heavy  tramp  on  the  stair-case  an 
nounced  another  visitor  to  this  curious  loft,  in  which  I 
found  myself  star-gazing  and  half  inclined  to  think  my 
friend  moon-struck. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  sir,  I  only  stepped  across  the  way  to 
get  a  little  something  to  warm  me.  Cold  night  and 
cold  work,  sir." 

"  I  told  you  not  to  leave  the  room.  I  shall  know  you 
too  well  to  employ  you  hereafter.  Here  is  money  :  get 
a  light  of  some  sort." 

"  I  hope  you'll  never  get  a  chance  to  employ  me  at 
such  work  again.  I  wouldn't  stay  another  hour  in  the 
dark,  in  this  room,  for  ten  times  what  you'll  give^me. 
Get  a  light !  Yes,  sir,  I  will." 

"Philip,"  said  "Willis,  when  the  man  was  gone, 
"  Philip,  it  is  curious  that  so  many  friends  of  our  young 


THE    OLD    HOUSE.  341 

days,  so  many  of  the  people  we  loved,  are  gathering  up 
yonder,  and  we  remain." 

"  I  see  nothing  curious  about  it,  Joe.  It  is  the  order 
of  the  world." 

"  Philip,  the  week  before  she  died  (he  spoke  just  so. 
What  need  had  I  to  ask  whom  he  spoke  of?)  they 
brought  into  her  room  a  child  of  matchless  beauty,  and 
she  held  it's  tiny  hand  in  hers,  and  prattled  to  the  child 
of  all  the  beautiful  fancies  that  filled  her  own  soul ; 
and  at  length,  growing  serious,  she  looked  into  the 
babe's  face  and  talked  of  heaven.  I  remember  the 
scene  as  if  it  were  of  this  morning ;  and  how,  when  they 
carried  the  child  away,  she  pressed  her  arms  around  it, 
and  kissed  its  cheeks  and  eyes,  and  said,  in  a  low,  fond 
tone,  *  We  shall  never  meet  again  on  earth,  for  I  go 
hence  soon,  but  I  pray  God  we  may  meet  in  His  heaven 
some  day.'  Philip,  are  the  prayers  of  dying  saints  heard 
with  more  certainty  than  others  ?" 

"  Certainly  not,  Joseph.  But  the  prayers  of  that 
saint  were  heard  and  recorded,  and  some  day  you  and 
I  will  read  them  in  radiant  characters." 

"  Then  that  last  prayer  was  heard,  and  God  is  mer 
ciful.  I  loved  that  babe  for  the  sake  of  our  dead  idol; 
and  for  years  I  watched  her  growth,  and  watched  how 
well  she  was  loved,  and  I  believed  the  dying  girl's  love 
had  sanctified  the  child  for  earth,  so  beautiful  and  gen 
tle  ^was  she  ;  and  sometimes  I  have  looked  at  her,  and 
wondered  if  that  prayer  would  be  answered,  and  we  all 
be  sitting  some  day  together  in  heaven.  Philip,  if  God 
is  merciful,  if  God  heard  that  prayer,  if  He  answers  it, 


342  LATER    YEARS. 

somewhere  to-night  up  yonder,  beyond  those  stars,  or 
mayhap  in  the  gloom  of  this  dark  chamber,  they  two 
are  together,  while  we  stand  here  by  the  dead  dust  of 
that  child." 

"  Martha  Long !" 

The  policeman  returned  at  the  instant  with  a  candle 
— a  tallow  dip,  that  he  had  lighted  on  the  stair-case,  and 
the  dim  light  revealed  the  outline  of  a  slender  form  ly 
ing  on  the  floor,  covered  with  a  wet  mass  of  clothing, 
out  from  which,  with  startling  beauty  and  magnifi 
cence  of  contour,  gleamed  the  dead  face  of  the  once  ra 
diant  girl. 

"  Yea,  there  she  is !"  said  "Willis,  bitterly ;  "  there  lies 
one  more  of  the  things  that  I  have  loved,  lived  for, 
cherished  silently,  secretly,  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  and 
she  is  dead  now !  I  tell  you,  Philip  Phillips,  there  was 
nothing  on  earth  last  night  that  I  loved  better  than  the 
thought  of  this  child !  I  did  not  love  her.  I  did  not 
care  to  see  her.  I  have  not  seen  her  for  four  years.  I 
have  only  thought  of  her  as  the  last  living  object  that 
was  the  bearer  of  her  blessings  and  her  kisses  save 
myself,  and  the  child  was  to  me  almost  like  a  legacy 
from  her.  Even  Lucy,  when  she  died,  bade  me  take 
care  of  that  child  for  dying  Ellen's  sake !  And  I  did 
care  for  her ;  and  a  year  ago,  when  I  heard  that  she 
was  to  be  married,  I  sent  her  a  dower  worthy  her  ac 
ceptance,  for  Ellen's  sake  ;  and  I  heard  that  she  ^was 
married  and  in  the  city,  and  happy,  and  I  was  content ; 
and  this  evening,  as  I  crossed  the  ferry,  they  told  me  a 
crazy  woman  had  drowned  herself,  and  they  were  drag- 


THE    OLD    HOUSE.  343 

ging  for  the  body  ;  and  while  I  inquired  carelessly  who 
she  was,  and  where  she  lived,  and  learned  that  she  was 
a  poor  sick  girl,  who  had  been  betrayed  by  her  husband, 
and  abandoned  in  sickness  and  want  on  the  eve  of 
childbirth,  and  that  she  had  thrown  herself  and  her 
young  child  into  the  stream  in  a  fit  of  madness,  and 
even  as  I  said  '  Poor  thing — poor  thing  !'  and  was  pass 
ing  on,  they  laid  that  body — that  sanctified  body — be 
fore  me  on  the  stones,  and  that  holy  face  looked  up  into 
mine  -with  the  smile  of  the  angel  that  first  met  her 
when  she  broke  forth  from  the  chains  of  her  madness 
into  the  company  of  the  stainless. 

"  I  had  her  brought  here,  for  no  other  home  had  she 
in  this  great  city,  and  the  inhabited  houses  around  re 
fused  to  receive  her,  and  a  policeman  directed  me  here, 
and  I  left  that  hound  yonder  to  guard  her  sleep,  and 
gave  him  gold  to  buy  his  time. 

"  '  Now,  Son  of  God  !  what  dost  thou  now  in  heaven, 
While  one  so  beautiful  lies  earthening  here?' 

"  Philip,  gold  would  not  buy  one  solitary  watcher  in 
this  great  city  to  stay  one  hour  by  that  dead  girl,  and  I 
know  a  hundred  cottage  homes — ay,  and  stately  halls, 
that  will  keep  weeping  vigils  to-morrow  night  for  that 
same  clay.  He  says  her  dead  eyes  stared  at  him  in 
the  starlight! — those  star-like  eyes,  that  will  never 
weep  again,  but  whose  closed  lids — close  them  gently, 
Philip — gently,  lovingly — will  win  tears  from  hundreds 
by  another  sunset.  Where  are  you  going,  Philip  ?" 

"  For  help  to  take  her  home." 


344  LATER    YEARS. 

"  Home — where  1     She.  is  at  home." 

"To  the  old  place." 

"  To  our  old  place  ?     It  is  a  good  thought." 

"  No,  Joe,  not  to  our  place  —  to  her  father,  to  the 
river  farm,  to  the  old  church-yard.  Come  with  me, 
Joseph.  This  has  strangely  shocked  you.  You  will 
be  ill." 

It  had  produced  a  startling  effect  on  my  friend, 
whose  health  has  been  sadly  failing  of  late.  But  he 
would  not  let  me  do  aught  that  he  could  do  as  well,  and 
it  was  not  till  the  ladies  came  that  we  could  persuade 
him  out  of  the  room.  They  arranged  to  have  the  pre 
cious  dust  removed  to  our  own  house,  and  the  next 
day,  preceded  by  a  messenger  carrying  the  solemn  ti 
dings,  we  bore  her  sadly  up  to  the  old  farm  and  the 
arms  of  her  broken-hearted  parents. 

Long  before  we  reached  the  house  we  met  wagon- 
load  after  wagon-load  of  the  people,  and  the  carriages 
of  the  wealthier  neighbors,  until,  when  we  arrived  at 
the  farm  gate,  there  was  a  procession  behind  us  half  a 
mile  in  length. 

The  intelligence,  which  had  preceded  us  but  a  few 
hours,  was  a  terrible  blow  to  the  father  and  mother. 
Nor  can  those  who  do  not  know  by  experience  how  far 
the  city  is  from  the  farm  in  the  country  well  imagine 
the  possibility  of  such  an  occurrence  ;  but  it  was  just 
so.  The  parents,  who  had  intrusted  her  to  a  young 
man  whose  good  name  they  had  taken  on  credit,  with 
out  much  examination,  and  whose  art  had  won  her 
young  love,  did  not  know  all  that  passed  in  that  first 


THE    OLD    HOUSE.  345 

year  of  wedlock — how  miserably  she  lived  in  low  lodg 
ings,  with  companions  whose  blasphemy  and  sins  con 
founded  her  innocent  soul — how  poverty  already  grasp 
ed  her — how  she  shrank  from  telling  them  her  story — 
how  she  was,  at  last,  abandoned  in  the  hour  of  peril — 
how  she  wandered,  insane,  about  the  streets  of  the  great 
city,  until  the  happy  release  which  she  innocently 
.sought. 

The  pastor  waited  for  us  at  the  gate  of  the  old  farm, 
and  lifted  his  hat,  and  essayed  to  speak,  but  bowed  his 
head  and  sobbed  aloud  ;  and  Willis  and  myself,  dis 
mounting,  walked  to  the  shadow  of  the  great  tree,  un 
der  which  stood  Stephen  Long  and  his  wife,  a  stricken 
couple,  and,  taking  their  hands  silently — for  we  could 
not  speak — delivered  up  to  them  the  charge  of  their 
dead  child,  and  again  mounting  our  horses,  turned  their 
heads  away  from  the  gathering  assembly,  and  by  cross-» 
roads  and  lanes,  familiar  of  old,  sought  our  way  once 
more  to  the  old  house. 

As  we  passed  along,  we  felt  that  the  years  have 
changed  us — these  later  years  of  toil,  of  weariness,  and 
worldliness,  and  that  the  calm  of  youth  and  the  quiet 
thoughtfulness  of  our  early  lives  have  given  place  to 
the  bustling,  busy  life  that  all  men  lead  who  are  in  and 
of  the  world  in  these  days.  Willis  has,  for  the  most 
part,  kept  out  of  the  world.  He  has  wandered  hith 
er  and  thither,  passing  most  of  his  time  in  a  new  place, 
on  which  he  has  devoted  much  labor  and  expense  to 
make  it  a  paradise.  I  have  settled  into  professional 
life  in  this  city,  and  escape  from  labor  occasionally,  but 
P2 


346  LATER    YEARS. 

briefly,  to  enjoy  the  renewal  of  old  pleasures.  It  was  a 
day  for  memory,  The  air  was  laden  with  odors  that 
were  like  memories.  Our  horses,  not  acquainted  with 
the  old  roads,  looked  cautiously  around  them,  and  now 
and  then  started  at  the  familiarity  of  the  "birds,  which 
are  here  never  frightened  by  boy  sportsmen.  Ibrahim 
and  Zephyr,  our  steeds  of  old,  were  dead,  and  before 
we  reached  the  old  house,  we  passed  a  clump  of  trees 
where  they  both  were  buried.  It  was  a  subject  of  long 
and  serious  discussion  with  us,  when  each  died,  wheth 
er  horses  had  souls  to  go  downward  to  the  earth  when 
they  were  dead,  and  whether  there  would  ever  be  a 
resurrection  for  gallant  steeds ;  nor  did  we  discuss  it 
idly,  for  the  doctrine  of  transmigration  of  souls  is  often 
times  an  interesting  doctrine,  and  one  which  affords 
food  for  much  thought. 

We  loitered  slowly  along  the  wood  roads.  Here  was 
the  spot  where,  in  olden  times,  we  used  to  sit  and  watch 
the  spire  of  the  church,  seen  far  off  through  an  opening 
in  the  forest.  We  paused  to  look,  but  the  forest  open 
ing  had  closed.  Here  was  the  bank  of  the  brook  where 
we  never  failed  to  water  the  horses,  and  we  offered  the 
opportunity  to  our  animals,  but  their  city  notions  spum 
ed  the  cool,  dashing  stream,  and  they  refused  to  drink. 
And  so  we  spurred  on,  and  went  down  the  shaded 
road  at  a  long  gallop,  bringing  up  with  a  jerk  at  the 
old  gate — the  same  old  park  gate,  unchanged  in  brace 
or  board  since  it  swung  to  our  departing  steps  in  boy 
hood.  It  had  opened  to  many  since  those  years  of  our 
youth,  and  we  looked  solemnly  at  it  now. 


THE    OLD    HOUSE.  347 

I  remember  it  when  the  old  judge  was  carried  out 
for  the  last  time.  I  remember  it  when  Lucy's  bridal 
party  entered  it.  I  remember  gay  troops  of  children 
welcomed  there,  and  solemn  processions  of  sad-eyed 
'old  people  going  out  there.  It  was  the  entrance  and 
the  exit  to  our  Eden.  It  was  the  bourne  which,  once 
passed,  seemed  to  mark  always  the  line  between  the 
calm  and  blessedness  of  boyhood  and  youth,  and  the 
anxieties,  cares,  and  trials  of  the  world.  Returning 
and  repassing  it,  we  entered  again  the  sacred  inclosure 
of  quiet  childhood,  the  place  of  rest.  That  gate  kept 
out  all  worldly  troubles,  but  it  would  not  keep  out  the 
angels  of  sorrow.  Joe — Joe  Willis,  I  can  hear  the 
swinging  moan  of  the  old  gate  now,  as  I  heard  it  long 
ago,  when  we  carried  her  out  to  rest  down  yonder  by 
the  village  church. 

He  was  thinking  of  the  same  thing  as  we  paused  be 
fore  the  gate,  and  he  knew  my  thought,  though  I  did 
not  speak  it  aloud,  and  I  could  see  the  old  smile,  that 
serene  and  faithful  smile,  come  over  the  face  of  my 
friend  as  he  gazed  wistfully  up  the  avenue,  and  then 
away  toward  the  church  spire,  and  then  up  through 
the  trees  that  overshadowed  us. 

A  group  of  children,  that  did  not  recognize  the  mas 
ter,  stood  hesitating  whether  to  open  the  gate,  when 
their  mother  hastened  out  with  vociferous  welcomes, 
and  threw  it  back  with  the  same  old  creak. 

"Your  gate-hinges  need  oil,  Mrs. Smith." 

"  Faith,  yes,  sir,  and  they've  needed  it  some  time, 
I'm  thinking.  I  don't  think  they've  been  oiled  since 
the  old  judge's  time,  Mr.  Willis." 


348  LATER    YEARS. 

We  entered  the  park,  and  rode  slowly  through  the 
winding  wood  road,  startling  the  quail  here  and  there, 
and  sometimes  rousing  a  partridge  or  a  rabbit,  and  so 
we  approached  the  hall  door,  and  dismounted  on  the 
familiar  greensward. 

Within,  the  house  was  unchanged.  Every  chair, 
every  article  of  furniture,  every  picture  was  where 
we  left  it ;  and  when,  at  length,  we  were  seated  to 
gether  in  the  library,  and  the  windows  were  thrown 
open  to  the  soft  air,  we  could  imagine  the  years  gone 
back,  and  ourselves,  as  in  other  days,  at  home. 

It  was  Saturday,  and  the  afternoon  passed  quietly. 
We  wandered  around  the  house  and  grounds,  sat  on  the 
bank  of  the  river,  whistled  snatches  of  old  airs,  caught 
ourselves  sighing  occasionally,  and,  on  the  whole,  made 
a  melancholy  sort  of  day  of  it. 

But  with  the  twilight  came  a  change .  The  hour  that 
usually  brings  sadness  brought  comparative  cheerful 
ness  to  us,  as  the  gloom  seemed  to  steal  in  at  the  win 
dows  and  overcome  the  light. 

As  the  evening  advanced  we  had  visitors,  and  quite 
a  company  assembled  in  the  rooms,  but  they  did  not 
remain  till  late,  for  it  was  the  evening  before  the  Sab 
bath,  and  long  before  midnight  we  were  each  in  our 
own  room,  left  to  sleep  and  the  pleasant  company  of 
dreams. 

Next  morning  we  rode  together,  as  in  old  times,  to 
church,  passing,  as  then,  the  loaded  wagons,  with  the 
good  people  of  all  the  country  around,  going  to  the 
same  place,  and  we  paused  now  and  then  as  we  passed 


THE    OLD    HOUSE.  349 

those  whom  we  recognized,  to  inquire  after  various 
members  of  their  respective  families,  whose  faces  we 
missed.  The  sad  cause  of  our  visit  was  known  to  all, 
and  all  hearts  were  in  mourning. 

It  is  a  sad  record,  that  of  a  village  or  a  country  con 
gregation  for  a  score  of  years.  The  young  people  have 
grown  sedate,  and  even  old  ;  the  old  people  are  mostly 
gone  to  the  assembly  of  the  dead ;  houses  have  changed 
inhabitants,  farms  have  changed  owners,  pews  in  the 
church  have  changed  occupants,  and  the  voices  of  the 
village  choir  are  new,  and  not  musical,  for  want  of  the 
melody  of  old  times. 

There  was  the  family  of  Simon  Gray,  once  so  stately 
in  his  seat,  which,  first  of  all,  we  missed ;  and  the  in 
quiries  we  set  on  foot  met  sad  responses,  for  the  last 
few  years  had  made  this  change,  and  we  had  not  heard 
of  it. 

It  was  after  the  congregation  had  left  the  church, 
and  when  the  good  pastor  stood  with  us  in  the  grave 
yard,  near  the  door,  just  by  the  grave  of  John  Maclean, 
that  we  asked  him  what  had  become  of  Thomas  Gray, 
the  old  elder's  first  and  last-surviving  son,  and  our  in 
formant  pointed  silently  to  a  long  grave,  newly  made, 
by  the  side  of  the  old  man  and  the  wife  of  his  youth. 
"  He  died  terribly,"  said  the  pastor,  with  an  emphasis 
which  attracted  our  attention,  and  to  our  looks  of  inter 
rogation  he  replied  briefly, 

"  He  drank  himself  into  miserable  poverty,  and  per 
ished  in  a  cold  winter  night  on  the  road  side — the 
same  road  side  down  which  the  old  man  had  led  him 


350  LATER    YEARS. 

by  the  hand  a  hundred  times  in  boyhood  to  the  school- 
house  prayer-meeting.  Some  persons  who  had  driven 
by  in  a  sleigh  remembered  next  morning  that  strange 
sounds  had  startled  them  as  they  passed  the  thicket  on 
the  lower  end  of  Simon  Gray's  farm — groans  and  oaths 
intermingled  ;  but  in  their  merriment  they  did  not  heed 
it,  and  the  son  of  the  good  old  man  died  like  a  dog  in 
the  corner  of  his  father's  fields.  He  wa's  nearly  as  old 
when  he  died  as  his  father  was  at  the  time  of  his 
death." 

I  shuddered  at  the  story,  and  remembered  the  old  man, 
and  wondered  where  he  stood,  on  what  hill  of  heaven, 
that  bitter  night,  when  the  boy  he  so  loved  lay  dying 
here  in  the  snow.  And  Willis  raised  his  eyes  sadly  to 
my  face,  and  that  glance  reminded  me  of  a  day,  years 
ago,  when  Ellen,  the  beloved,  was  a  child,  and  came 
home  with  a  frightened  look,  and  said  she  was  cross 
ing  the  brook,  and  had  paused  to  water  her  horse,  when 
she  was  scared  by  Thomas  Gray,  who  came  by  In  his 
wagon,  shouting  and  singing  so  that  she  fancied  he  was 
drunk,  and  she  came  home  at  a  gallop,  terribly  fright 
ened,  for  she  had  never  before  seen  a  drunken  man. 
We  doubted  her  judgment,  for  we  could  not  believe  it 
of  the  son  of  the  good  old  elder.  But  it  was  even  so. 

How  radiant  was  that  memory !  She  stood  on  the 
greensward  before  the  old  house,  just  as  she  had  sprung 
from  her  horse,  holding  the  rein  with  her  left  hand, 
while  she  gesticulated  violently  with  her  right,  and  Leo 
stood  by,  calmly  looking  on,  as  if  ready,  were  it  neces 
sary,  to  confirm  every  word  of  her  story.  And  the  vis- 


THE    OLD    HOUSE.  351 

ion  departed,  and  left  me  standing  there  in  the  old 
church-yard,  and  Thomas  Gray  lay  in  the  dust  close  by, 
and  Ellen,  the  beloved,  was — no,  not  there — not  there. 
We  did  not  think  of  her  as  there.  Sometimes  the 
thought  of  her  closed  eyes,  her  holy  eyes  close  shut,  the 
hushed  lip,  her  lip  sealed  to  silence  by  that  last  holy 
kiss,  the  white  forehead,  the  forehead  once  gleaming 
with  thought,  gleaming  in  our  memories  with  the  last 
triumphant  thought  of  God — all  this  in  the  grave,  in 
the  dust,  in  the  church-yard,  would  for  an  instant  over 
power  us  ;  but  the  next  moment  we  heard  a  voice  from 
heaven,  and  ceased  to  think  of  her  as  there. 

"Philip,  let  us  walk  home."  And  so  we  walked 
across  the  fields,  while  Dick  took  the  horses,  and  as  we 
walked  we  came  at  length  upon  a  quiet  place  in  the 
old  park,  a  sort  of  fairy  ring,  where  the  oak  trees  left 
an  open  circle,  over  which  their  branches  met,  and  in 
which  the  grass  grew  short  and  close,  intermingled 
with  flowers,  chiefly  blue  violets. 

Willis,  who  had  been  silent  hitherto,  threw  himself 
on  the  grass  here,  and  I  followed  his  example. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  morning  when  I  talked  of 
dying,  Philip?" 

"Perfectly." 

"  And  do  you  know  that  I  think  more  of  it  now  than 
I  did  then?" 

"  And  why  ?" 

"  Because  this  thing  has  shocked  me  more  than  I 
thought ;  because  I  feel  the  approach  of  a  mystery  ;  be 
cause  I  know  that  not  far  from  me,  it  may  be  years  off, 


352  LATER    YEARS. 

or  it  may  be  months,  or  only  days,  stands  one  with  out 
stretched  hand,  ready  to  lead  me  through  a  dark  pas 
sage  into  the  revelations  of  the  other  world  ;  and  I  am 
almost  ready.  Not  wishing  any  more  to  die  than  I  did 
then,  nor  any  less  willing  to  live  than  I  was  then,  I  am 
ready,  because  I  am  satisfied  that  this  disease  with 
which  I  have  fought  for  years  is  overcoming  me,  and, 
whether  I  will  or  not,  I  must  die.  I  have  not  desired 
this.  Since,  years  ago,  in  that  hour  of  unutterable  pain, 
the  hand  of  God  dashed  from  my  lips  the  cup  of  bliss 
that  I  was  brimming,  I  have  been  wishing  to  taste 
whatever  cup  was  offered  me,  and  I  have  drunk  of 
very  many,  and  some  I  have  drained  to  the  last  drop  ; 
but  my  thirst  is  the  same  thirst,  the  same  unsatisfied 
longing.  If  it  be  time,  I  am  ready  to  lift  that  cup  of 
bliss  to  my  lips  again.  I  know  very  well  that  the 
thirst  will  but  increase,  until  yonder,  filled  from  the 
clear  river,  I  take  it  again  from  her  hands,  blessed  by 
the  touch  of  her  lips  and  the  smile  of  her  God. 

"And  now,  Philip,  once  more  promise  me,  what  you 
promised  when  we  left  her  there,  that  when  this  dust 
is  dust,  you  will  bury  me — " 

"  Close  by  her,  Joe — close  by  her,  so  that  in  the  res 
urrection  you  shall  not  be  separated." 

"  So  that  I  shall  see  her  first  in  the  morning,  Philip." 

"  And  now  homeward,  Joseph.  I  can  not  let  you 
dwell  on  these  subjects." 

"  Yes,  homeward,  Philip,  homeward !  It  is  Home, 
is  it  not? — the  dear  old  place!  Home  of  all  joyful 
memories — of  all  joyful  hopes  !  I  love  that  fancy  of 


THE    OLD    HOUSE.  353 

yours,  Philip,  that  in  the  resurrection  we  may  return 
to  our  old  homes.  What  a  glorious  old  home  this 
would  be !" 

I  must  consult  physicians  about  Joe  Willis.  It  can 
not  be  that  he  is  dying  thus,  before  my  very  eyes.  I 
can  not  think  of  losing  him.  By  my  faith,  if  he  dies,  I 
will  look  out  "  a  snug  place  to  lie"  for  myself. 


THE    END. 


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